A Deeper Blue

A Deeper Blue Sequel to Ghost, Kildar, Choosers of the Slain and Unto the Breach

John Ringo

Cover Art by Kurt Miller First printing, July 2007 A Baen Book ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-2128-0 ISBN-10: 1-4165-2128-3 Copyright© 2007 by John Ringo Electronic version by WebWrights

Heart-sick over the deaths of so many of his Keldara followers, and one in particular, former SEAL Mike Harmon, hero of Ghost, Kildar and Choosers of the Slain, decides to sit this one out. WMDs headed for the US no longer matter to the Kildar. But when his best friend and intel specialist both are seriously wounded in an ambush aimed at him, the Kildar gets his gameface back on. Mike has always said that he's not a nice guy, and he's about to prove it to a boatload of terrorists and Colombian drug dealers. Set in the Bahamas and Florida Keys, A Deeper Blue is a fast moving thriller that never slows down from the first page. With the return of some old faces, the action-packed novel proves, once again, the adage that sometimes it takes some very bad people to do good things.

About the Author John Ringo had visited 23 countries and attended 14 schools by the time he graduated high school. This left him with a wonderful appreciation of the oneness of humanity and a permanent aversion to foreign food. A veteran of the 82nd Airborne, he brings first-hand knowledge of military operations to his fiction. In addition to his nationally best-selling techno-thriller novels about Mike Harmon, his novels for Baen include the novels in the New York Times best-selling Posleen War series (A Hymn Before Battle, Gust Front, When the Devil Dances, and Hell's Faire), the Council War series (There Will be Dragons, Emerald Sea, Against the Tide, and East of the Sun, West of the Moon), the novel Into the Looking Glass, four collaborations with fellow New York Times bestselling author David Weber (March Upcountry, March to the Sea, March to the Stars and We Few) and three collaborative spinoffs from the Posleen series: Hero (with Michael Z. Williamson), Watch on the Rhine (with Tom Kratman) and the New York Times best seller Cally's War (with Julie Cochrane).

Dedication

For the poor bastards, male and female, guarding the thugs in Guantanamo, stuck in paradise doing pretty close to the world's crappiest job. This one's for you, folks. And, as always: For Captain Tamara Long, USAF Born: May 12, 1979 Died: 23 March 2003, Afghanistan You fly with the angels now. No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue I could not foresee this thing happening to you. If I look hard enough into the setting sun My love will laugh with me before the morning comes. Rolling Stones Paint it Black

Prologue

The freighter rolled eastward on easy swells, but nothing was easy about the task. It might have helped if some of the crew were handling the winch, but they were all below under strict orders to forget anything unusual had occurred. And even stricter orders to keep quiet if they did. The crew wouldn't talk, though. They were all good Islamics and supported the jihad. What was more, they knew that if any word of this event got out, their families as well as themselves would pay the penalty. So Ibrahim had to keep an eye on it all. He had carefully instructed the fedayeen on the plan, but nothing beat experience. And he was the only one with experience. He'd shipped out on boats just like this in his youth, escaping the hell of the Karachi slums. And over time he had worked his way up to bosun, the senior deck worker of a ship. It was then he came to the attention of the Movement. The Movement often needed cargo shifted around and it had ships aplenty. What it did not have was enough trustworthy people who knew the ins and outs of how to move cargo. . . covertly. Oh, there were many such but there were never enough. Guns, rockets and ammunition, women and drugs to pay for the weapons, people, there were so many things the Movement needed. . .moved. This mission, though, was so complicated Ibrahim could only hope any of it went right. But he only had to ensure this one small part. And that was difficult enough. The off-shore speed-boat touched the waves and Ibrahim slowed the winch. The massive boat, nearly fifteen meters long, was big and tough but it wouldn't take it well if the waves slapping the ship's side overwhelmed it or it slammed into the ship's hull. Hiding the damned things had been bad enough. If Ibrahim had had his way the boats would have been locally purchased; there were many such in the area. It would have been a joke straight from Allah to buy them from the American government. The Americans often seized such boats running drugs in this area and just as often sold them back to the drug runners at auction. Instead, these had been purchased in Europe, shipped in one of the many freighters owned by the Movement to Africa, transferred to another and transferred again to Ibrahim's ship, carefully secured out of sight in the hold. The transfer had been effected in west Africa in a port notorious for its lax customs. If anyone had noticed the midnight transfer no word had come to the Movement. Now it was Ibrahim's job to get the damned thing into the water without it smashing against the side of the moving ship or being swamped by a wave. It was down and he waved to the men on the boat to unhook. They had better get that one right; if one of them slipped over the side they were likely to be crushed between the two vessels. And even if they were not, the ship was not going to stop. Once this boat was in the water it could pick up anyone overboard. Until then, though. . . The fedayeen, though, did the job right. Allah knows, Ibrahim had been careful enough in his instructions. First the young man, a Yemeni with some small boat experience, started the engine and unhooked the rear connection. Very important. If he'd unhooked the front, the boat would have spun in place and probably swamped or been pulled under the ship. Starting the engine was only good sense

before casting off. Only when it was free did he make his way forward, carefully crawling over the broad, flat expanse of the front surface, and unhook the front connection. They were both fast connections with lanyards to release them. The front connection was under massive tension and sprung back with a twanging sound, striking the side of the ship hard enough Ibrahim knew he'd need to check it before the next boat was released. It took nearly an hour before the five boats were in the water, following the ship in a long string, then came the last, and strangest, part. A crew of fedayeen had been working on one of the surface containers, a standard shipping container carried on the deck. The fedayeen had fitted the container with a set of pontoons and a cable. The cable was attached to a massive steel plate. The steel plate had to be suspended over the side, first, then the container swung out. Ibrahim couldn't handle both of the winches for this one. The commander of the mission was on the main crane, holding up the container, while Ibrahim handled a smaller crane that lifted the plate. With both of them swung over the side, the ship was listing by nearly seven degrees, but it wouldn't stay that way long. Ibrahim released the connections on the steel plate and it splashed into the water, the cable attached to the bottom of the container spinning out furiously. A bare moment later the container splashed into the briny deeps, floated for a moment on the surface, supported by its pontoons, then was snatched under like a fishing bobber. All that was left was a trail of bubbles. "You have done well, Ibrahim," the commander of the fedayeen contingent said as the bosun climbed out of the seat of the winch. The fedayeen commander was strange. He wore the proper dress and prayed five times a day as the Prophet decreed. But his eyes were gray, unusual in a believer, and sometimes he seemed more European than Middle Eastern for all his dark skin and hair. Little things you'd only notice on a long voyage, but telling. "Thank you, Haj," Ibrahim replied, breathing in relief. "Go with God." "And you as well," the man said, drawing a pistol. "Go with God." *** Kurt Schwenke watched the body tumble over the side, slid the silenced pistol into the rear waistband of his pants then walked to where a ladder dangled over the side. As he climbed down, one of the boats came alongside. It was tough getting from a moving ship to a small boat but Kurt had no particular problems. He kicked outwards and landed on one of the seats of the boat, then settled into place. "Do we have it?" he asked. "Souhi has it on sonar," Sayid al-Yemani replied, powering up and turning, the boat splashing up and over the waves then crashing down in a shower of spray. "Allah's beard! I am still having problems with these, Haji. Sorry."

"Not a problem," Kurt, AKA Sabah Arif, replied, wiping at his face. "You will have much time to learn." The boat turned away from the waves and powered up more, jumping over them now so that Kurt had to put on the safety belts. It was only about a quarter mile, though, to the place where the container had gone over the side. "There," the driver said, powering down and pointing to the sonar screen. "It went deep, though. Now it is on its way up." Kurt nodded and watched the sonar contact rising. The water in the area was nearly two thousand feet deep, so the massive plate had a ways to descend. The coil of cable on the container was supposed to play out evenly, never letting the container get too deep, until the plate hit bottom. The container was hanging, now, between about seventy five meters and a hundred. Deep. Possibly too deep. But even as he watched the numbers began to drop. Sixty meters. Fifty. It leveled off at twenty and stayed there, steady. "Are you ready, Kahf?" Kurt said, looking over his shoulder. The Egyptian already was pulling his SCUBA rig out of the racks. A former dive instructor at the resort in Sharm Al Sheik on the tip of the Sinai peninsula, he was experienced in both conventional and "technical" diving. The rig he was using for this was a simple SCUBA apparatus, one steel 80 cubic foot tank, two stage SCUBAPRO regulator, the only difference from beginner-quality equipment being that it was a NITROX setup, which used extra oxygen in the mix to extend down time. Kahf just held up a thumb and fore-finger in an "Okay" signal and kept getting it on. In a few seconds he was ready to dive. He tucked his regulator in his mouth and slid over the side into the warm waters, grabbing a rope on his way. Using the rope, he trailed behind the boat, searching the waters and occasionally using his body to plane downwards. After a moment he surfaced again and held up another "Okay" signal then let go. "He's spotted it," Kurt said. "Hold this position." Kurt was surprised to see that he could pick up the diver on the sonar. The sonar system tagged him as a fish, admittedly, but he could still follow his progress on the three-D imager as the "fish" made his way down to the container. The "fish" hovered around the container for a moment then came back up. "It's all good," Kahf said, pulling himself out of the water on the dive platform at the rear of the boat. "I got the doors open. That was harder than we expected but they're open." "Right," Kurt said, waving at another boat and making motions for them to dive. This time the diver was carrying more gear. Double air tanks, a third dangling in front of him and float bags being the big part. As Sayid pulled away the second boat came over the container and as soon as it was there the pre-rigged diver hit the water. It was a bit of a wait but Kurt was patient. After a moment, though, two lift bags popped to the surface. Kurt watched as the boat came alongside the bags

and the driver and a third man pull a blue barrel over the side, carefully. The barrel was rolled out of sight just as another bobbed to the surface. The process was repeated three times, a total of four of the barrels, and then Kurt gestured for the boats to assemble. "I repeat," Kurt yelled. "Only one boat at a time. That is very important. Follow your bearings. You all know where to pick up your routes. Souhi goes first. The rest of you will wait." He stopped and then grinned. "By the way, welcome to the sunny Bahamas!" *** "What are we doing about this?" the President asked. "It's tough," the FBI director replied. "We don't want people panicking. But we've upped the terrorism alert level and we're flooding the south Florida area with agents. They've been told they're looking for a major shipment of something that's going to look like drugs but is terrorism related." "We're clamping down on port checks," the head of Customs and Border Protection added after a glance from his boss, the Secretary of Homeland Security. "All my people are on overtime for the foreseeable future and we're checking both pre-checked containers and uncleared. But even with the extra manpower we can't check them all, Mr. President. We're up from our normal, low, percentage but short of mostly closing the ports down. . ." "National Guard is helping with the search," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. "And I'm pulling in all the teams. We're not going to get caught forward like we were the last time. If it's something that Delta or Rangers can operate on, they're going to be ready to shoot." "Shaking all the trees," the Director of National Intelligence added. "NSA is on high alert and I've sent out a classified memo for any information, barring what we already have, on the shipment." "Same here," the Defense Intelligence Agency Director added. "And we're trying to squeeze anything we can from recent detainees. But I don't think there's much there other than what we got from Al Kariya and his computer. Once Kariya broke, he broke hard. We've pretty much got everything he knew. Short of picking up someone high-level who is aware of the op, I think we're about done there." "Where is the ship?" "Should be just about to Miami," Homeland Security said. "We're low-keying it." "But they were supposed to be 'transferred' before reaching port, right?" the President asked. "Yes, sir," the DDIA said. "We picked the ship up late. It was definitely off the sea-lanes. The transfer possibly occurred somewhere north of the Bahamas." "The Navy's looking for it," the CJCS added. "Mr. President," Secretary of Homeland Security said, "we're using every available resource." "Not every resource," the President said, looking at the Secretary of Defense. "Call Pierson. Now."

"Sir," the DNI said, rolling his eyes since the President wasn't looking, "you're not talking about. . ." "Get me the Kildar." *** The painting had been made by a renowned cover artist, an artist of the "old school" that still used acrylics to create massive paintings just to grace a book. The subject was a Valkyrie but one far different than most. She had the blonde hair and busty build of one, but her hair was unbraided, long golden tresses floating in the breeze of her passage. And instead of the traditional over endowed "breastplate", she wore only a white dress, rich with seed pearls, cut daringly down the front to nearly the navel and short in front, high on the thigh. She was riding, side-saddle, a white, winged horse and held in her right hand a blazing minigun, pointed at the ground. And she was smiling, a vicious smile of triumph and victory. Her face was a vision, but only to Mike. Oh, she was pretty, even beautiful, but you could see a dozen like her in any American college, three or four as good looking among the Keldara and several who were, arguably, more beautiful. But none of that mattered to the man in the comfortable chair placed at perfect viewing distance from the painting. Mike lifted the glass and considered the lips for the thousandth time. He had given the artist very precise instructions and even a picture. And in almost every way the artist had caught Mike's vision, or surpassed it. That, and the secrecy with which the picture was made, was why he'd been paid a fee four times his normal. But if the artist had one flaw, it was in lips. He almost invariably used his wife as a model for his art, and she had a very definite Hapsburg lip. Oh, pretty, yes, but not right. Not for this painting. Everywhere else the image was perfection. A way to ensure that no matter what, Mike would never forget that face. But the lips were creeping in, erasing the image of them caressing his chest, his stomach. . . He lifted the glass, realized it was mostly ice, and poured in more Elijah Craig. Hey, you couldn't fly on just one wing. Or two. Or a dozen or a thousand. At this point, the bottles lined one wall of the small room. "When the mound reaches the very sky," Mike said, not looking at the bottles. There was a tap on the door and he pressed a solenoid, dropping a steel plate over the painting. Then he hit the release on the door. "Come." "Kildar," Mother Savina said, diffidently. "There is a call from Colonel Pierson." "You can tell Colonel Pierson to fuck off, with my compliments," Mike slurred. "And tell him to tell his boss the same thing." "Yes, Kildar," Mother Savina said, closing the door. Mike pressed the solenoid again, locked the door, and took another sip.

"When the mound reaches the sky. When the mound reaches the sky. When the mound reaches the sky. That's when I'll talk to fucking Pierson or his boss. When the mound reaches the sky."

Chapter One

"Anybody got a fucking clue?" The meeting was unusual. The group had all met each other before, even had meetings together, but there was one person missing and that threw the whole balance out. Nielson looked around at the faces, searching for an answer to his question. All six of the Keldara Fathers were present as well as two of the Mothers. The Keldara were an ancient race of mountain warriors, descendants of the Norse guards of the Byzantine Emperors, the Varangians. Marooned by the flow of history as the Empire receded, they had endured a series of conquerors over the years but always maintained their traditions. Forced, like the Ghurkas and the Kurds, to be farmers for survival, they had, nonetheless, kept up their warrior tradition. In part this was due to a quiet and subtle breeding program. Over the years they had had many "lords" occupy the caravanserai where the meeting was taking place. Some of them were courtiers exiled from centers of power but most had been foreign adventurers attached to whatever empire "owned" the Keldara at the time. The courtiers didn't tend to last. They died mysteriously of diseases or sudden heart attacks or hunting accidents. The other lords, the warriors, well "a soldier that won't fuck, won't fight." Those lords, naturally, wanted to sample the beautiful Keldara girls. And they were beautiful, so much so that people that met them commented on it constantly. Most such lords assumed the right as part of their position. The Keldara had made that right their own, though, sending only girls who were about to be married and also in their period of maximum fertility. And they had insisted, quietly, subtly, but very determinedly, that the "lord" pay for his "rights" by presenting a dowry to the young lady. Called the "Rite of Cardane", over the centuries it had been used to carefully breed to dozens of different races, but every bit of that genetics had been from proven warriors. Those that weren't. . . Well so many accidents can befall a person. Tartar eyes, a legacy of Genghiz' hordes, blonde and red hair from the Norse, black from the Turks and Ottomans, the men were powerful and handsome, fell beyond belief in battle, the women gorgeous and fey and nearly as dangerous. But they needed their lord, their Kildar. They needed his genes, yes, but very nearly as good sat in the room with them. What they needed, most, was his leadership and the knowledge that each generation had brought to the Keldara of the best, most modern, way to destroy his enemies. The Keldara had been axemen from the North, bow-men riders and armored knights in their time. They had swung swords and fired long jazeels. They lived on the cutting edge of the blade, whatever would kill the most enemies was fine by them. Now they armed themselves with M4s and machine-guns, MP-5s and sniper rifles. Their armor was Kevlar and composite. None of it was any good without the Kildar, though.

"I could beat him up," Master Chief Charles Adams said. The burly and bald-headed former SEAL had known the Kildar for years, since both were in BUD/S together in the infamous Class 201. They'd been on the same team, briefly, then the Kildar had gone off to teach meats while Adams climbed the ladder of rank. Adams had next run into his old buddy in a stinking underground fortress in Syria, finding him shot to ribbons after holding off, with very little support, a Syrian commando battalion. Later his "friend" had called him up and asked him to assemble a team and come train some weird group of mountain people in the country of Georgia. Adams had been hanging out ever since. The Keldara were great people, the scenery was awesome, the living conditions, given that there were three hookers in-house, were great and the beer was fucking awesome. He acted as the Kildar's field second and had been at his side for several hairy ops. But it wasn't the ops, directly, that had led to this fuck-up. Just one fucking casualty. You'd think a big guy could get over one fucking casualty, no matter how good a piece of ass it had been. "I don't think that would help," Colonel Thomas Nielson said, dryly. The colonel was a former infantry and civil affairs officer, Ranger tabbed, airborne qualified and once an instructor at the War College. The only professional officer in the group, he acted as the Kildar's chief of staff. Short with black hair going gray and green-eyes that worked remarkably well on the ladies, he was about ready to go for the Master Chief's suggestion. "It'd help me," Adams argued. "I'm about sick of his pouting." "The Kildar is soul damaged," Father Kulcyanov said, wheezily. The oldest remaining Father, Kulcyanov was a veteran of WWII, in the Red Army. He'd been in every major campaign, to include Stalingrad, and had so many medals he kept them in a very large box. In addition, he acted as the Keldara's high priest. Given that that position had to be held by a warrior, it made sense. "It has happened before." "I hate to say this, but I have to question this whole Rite thing," Captain Kacey Bathlick said. One of the pilots recently hired to support the Keldara she knew she was the most junior member of the group, at least in experience. But not only had she proven her merits on the last mission, she wasn't the sort to just keep her mouth shut. And, hell, Gretchen had been her crewchief. She was pissed about her getting blown away but she wasn't sitting crying in her fucking room! She'd just sent the Chechens who did it to meet Allah. Blasted the hell out of them, actually. "I mean, I get the whole point and the history. But fraternization is never a good idea." "That is, unfortunately, a point that is past," Anastasia Rakovich pointed out. The "house manager" for the Kildar, she was a former harem slave and harem manager hired to fulfill much the same role. She had more or less inserted herself into the position of "house manager" since the Keldara housekeeper, Mother Savina, was less than experienced in managing the household of a lord. Anastasia had been a junior manager from the time she was seventeen and the manager of an Uzbek sheik's household from the time she was twenty-one. Still only twenty-seven, she was model beautiful with long blonde hair and blue eyes, much like the late Gretchen Mahona. But while she regularly warmed the Kildar's bed, and he her back given that she was a high-level sexual masochist, the Kildar had never

been infatuated with her as he had become with Gretchen. "And, frankly, if he'd had more time with her the hurt might have been less. Or more, I don't know," she added with a sigh. "The reason we originally gave for the Rite is, of course, no longer. . .effective," Mother Mahona said. "Which is well, since I don't think the Kildar is willing to continue with the Rite." The previous mission had involved the sale of WMD by the Russian mob to Al Qaeda. The mob had the WMD, the Al Qaeda members had a very large quantity of portable currency and gems. Most of that had been captured and brought back, despite the battle. Mike had stated, bluntly, that dowries, now and for the foreseeable future, were covered. Gretchen had not been her daughter by body but held her name due to being of the extended "Family" of the Mahonas. Mother Mahona and Mother Silva, Gretchen's birth mother, were both at the meeting to see if they had any idea how to pull the Kildar out of his depression. Neither had come up with anything. "I'd be more than willing to let him sit in there until his liver gave out," Nielson continued. "But the point is we've got a mission. Pierson is really exercised." "What?" Patrick Vanner asked. The crew-cut and stocky former Marine, former NSA analyst and current electronic intel chief wasn't sure what to do about the Kildar. The problem was, well, he was the Kildar. He owned the damned place, he was a total free agent and he had more money than God. There wasn't any way to shake him out of his depression unless the guy did it himself. And that didn't look to be happening any time soon. "WMD, inbound to the States," Nielson said. "That's all I've got right now." "So we'd be operating in the States?" Adams asked. "They don't have enough people?" "The Boss asked," Nielson said. "Oh." "But I suspect he asked for the Kildar, yes?" Father Kulcyanov said. "Yeah, but what the hell," Adams replied. "Kildar, Keldara, big diff. So he sits this one out. I can lead the teams, Nielson does the mission planning. Heck, I can do most of that. We bring a couple of teams, keep the rest here for positional defense. Not that we need it much, given the condition of the Chechens." The last mission had been "the world's most successful fuck-up." Due to "insufficient data", notably that a large and professional Chechen brigade was moving into the area, the Keldara had ended up in a pitched battle. It was there that Captain Bathlick and her "co" Captain Tamara Wilson had won their spurs. It was also the reason Gretchen Mahona had been killed. The battle had broken the back of the Chechens – their main local threat – when the Chechens assumed that four thousand fedayeen could easily wipe out a hundred "pagans." In that they had been so very very wrong. The battle had left the cream of the Resistance's most elite force scattered for the ravens. Patrols had not picked up any sign of Chechen movement in their sector in the two months since the battle.

"The Keldara are not the Kildar," Father Kulcyanov said, cautiously. "If you choose to take the Keldara, if the Kildar approves, we will not stand in your way. They will, undoubtedly, win glory and those that fall will be lifted to the Halls. But do not mistake the Keldara for the Kildar. We do not." The Keldara had masked as Islamics and Christians over the years. They did not care what religion their masters wanted them to practice. But they had retained their true faith in the Old Gods of the Norse and traditions drawn from both Norse and Celts. Since the Kildar did not seem to care they had, slowly, come "out of the closet" about their beliefs. One of those was that a person could not enter the Halls of Feasting, Valhalla, unless they had been proven in battle. To Father Kulcyanov the last battle had been a mixed blessing. Far too many of the Keldara had entered the Halls, but for the first time in a generation Keldara were entering the Halls. The dun of the Keldara, their massive burial mound that most people mistook for a gigantic glacial hill, had been added to. The Keldara had added to their glory and had found favor before the Father of All. He would see his fallen children, nieces and nephews, in the Halls. His place was assured by the slaughtered crews of German Tiger tanks and broken units of the Wehrmacht and SS. He had warned the Kildar, who he had seen falling into soul-death, not to lose the path of the warrior. For Kildar's sake, who was warrior born, and for the Keldara. The Keldara were nothing without war. But his words had, apparently, been insufficient. "He's got a point," Vanner said. "Master Chief, you're a good shooter and the Keldara will follow. And Colonel, you're a good planner. And I can, as always, handle the intel and commo. But ain't none of us the Kildar." "I've known Mike since he was a wet behind the ears BUD/S recruit," Adams said. "Of course, so was I. But the point is, he's human. God knows he's human. And he's replaceable. Everybody is. We do the mission. Maybe we find the WMD, maybe we don't. But if the Boss calls, we do the damned mission. Period fucking dot." "Okay," Nielson said, sighing. "You take the teams. I'll stay back here and handle the details. I can do that long range. Who do you want?" "I'm going," Vanner said. "There's some tech I've wanted to pick up in the States for a while, anyway. And I'd rather be on site to handle tricky stuff. I'll take four of the girls." Vanner's staff was mostly Keldara females, most of them under twenty. They had soaked up the details of communications and intelligence as if they'd been training in it from birth. Lately, Vanner had been picking up some pieces of intel that made him wonder if that wasn't truth. While the Keldara men were top-flight warriors and many of them smart as hell, the Keldara girls were so smart it was scary. And they were sneaky in ways he was just beginning to souse out. "I'll take Oleg. . .shit," Adams said, pausing. The Keldara's top team leader had had his leg blown off by a mortar in the battle. He'd gotten a state-of-the-art prosthetic, but he still wasn't in top shape. And his Team was shaky without him. His other top choice, Team Sawn, had lost its leader in the battle and was still shaking down. Padrek, another he would have liked for their technical expertise, had been ravaged. About half of them were dead or still recovering. "I'll take. . .Vil and Pavel. Daria? I could use somebody to handle the. . ."

"Details," Daria said, dimpling. The Ukrainian girl had been picked up on a mission, a kidnappee being held in a snuff house in Montenegro while the teams were hunting for another girl. A trained but out-of-work secretary, she was still kicking herself for accepting the offer of "a good job in Europe." That was a well known ploy that slavers used to capture females. But the con, and that was the only way to put it, had been well laid. She had been awaiting death when the Keldara showed up. She'd been hired while still on the mission to handle the burgeoning administrative details of the Kildar and stayed around ever since. The pay was good, the living conditions excellent and it wasn't like she had to worry about slavers. "I'll put in a call to Chatham for a plane big enough to handle two teams and support staff. And I'll coordinate with the BCIS for entry of the teams and their equipment." "I'll go as well," Dr. Tolegen Arensky said. "If you'll have me." The Russian WMD specialist, short, round with balding black hair, was a recent addition to the team. He'd been picked up during the previous mission after having been forced to betray the Russians and smuggle out samples of weaponized smallpox. He'd stayed on because he was also a trained physician and, well, not particularly welcome in Russia at the moment. "With it being WMD, hell yeah!" Adams said. "Okay," Nielson said. "You go break it to the Kildar. When you get his okay, I'll call Pierson." "We taking Katya?" Vanner asked. "And has anyone seen J?" "Two very good questions," Nielson replied, smiling grimly. "You're not him, are you?" *** "Katya!" Martya Dzintas wasn't happy to be knocking on the girl's door. But the noise was disrupting class. Martya was fifteen, a harem girl and proud of it. She had been raised on a small farm not far from the caravanserai and at fourteen she'd been sold by her parents to a group of Chechens. She didn't hold it against her parents, being "sent to town" was just one of those things. Not only did the Chechens have guns and a serious interest in buying the beautiful fourteen-year old, her parents needed the money. She didn't want to be a whore, which was what the Chechens intended for her, but there wasn't much anyone could do about it. Except the Kildar. When the Chechens made the mistake of kidnapping one of the Keldara girls, the Kildar had responded with his usual understated manner. After he had the girls in the van cleaned of the blood, though, he had a problem. None of the girls had homes to go back to. To their parents they were "no deposit, no return." Not only were they, presumably, no longer virgins, the farms in the area were too marginal to bring another mouth back to feed. The Kildar had, therefore, brought them into his own household as concubines. But he had a very odd view of what to do with harem slaves. The first rule he'd laid down, damn him, was that the girls had to be sixteen before he'd bed them. It was, as he pointed out, younger than his culture would consider "okay" but given that twelve was considered marriageable in the area it was a good median.

The second rule he'd laid down was that the girls had to learn. When they were old enough he intended them to move on, to go get a job, go to university, get a husband, have kids, have a "real life." And he'd been careful and considerate in bedding them. Yes, he occasionally had an evening just to relieve his need, but most of the time the girls returned to the harem half unconscious with endorphins and ready to go back as soon as they recovered. The Kildar was as good in bed as he was in battle. None of the girls who had done so minded bedding him, not one bit. And then there was the matter of status. This region was very backward and she'd come to understand that. It was not a normal place compared to the US or Europe. But it was the culture she had been raised in. And in that culture, the Kildar had very high status. The Keldara, and the Kildar, were legends in the region long before the present Kildar arrived. It had been a long time since a true Kildar was in the valley and the old people had bemoaned that. The new Kildar, furthermore, truly had brought back the good times. The Chechens no longer extorted "taxes" and burned farms when they didn't pay up. They no longer stole children. They no longer took the food and livestock. And the money the Kildar brought in – often through killing Islamics which to the mostly Orthodox believers in the area was a good thing – spread out. Things were looking up in the region. Thus, Martya's status, even as a "harem slave" was far higher than it had been as the daughter of penniless farmer, much less as a whore. She loved the Kildar for bringing her into his household, for feeding her febrile mind through learning, for giving her status even in her parents' eyes. And she was counting the days to her sixteenth birthday. But at the moment, she had a problem. The noise from Katya's room was disrupting class. Especially the whooping. Katya was the one thing in the Kildar's household Martya did not enjoy. The Russian whore was. . .evil. Mean didn't begin to describe it. She would do small, petty, things that she could get away with to hurt the other girls. And there was little they could do about it. The whore was being trained by the Kildar as an "insertion agent," a spy. And the Americans had given her special powers and, notably, poisoned fingernails. Even before she'd started training all of the girls had feared her. Now they were terrified of her. But she had changed after the last battle. She hardly put on anyone at all anymore and occasionally did nice things for them. She had fixed Nikki's broken CD player. She had helped Martya with her English lessons. But the girls weren't willing to place too much faith in the unexplained change. Not with Katya. So knocking on her door to ask her to turn down the stereo was the last thing that Martya wanted to do. But Tinata had insisted. Nobody was getting anything done. The music cut off and the door was yanked open. The sight left Martya staring. Katya was a very beautiful blonde, just median height with bright blue eyes that could be cold as a shark or innocent as a virgin depending on her choice and mood. At the moment she was looking pissed, but not deadly. What had Martya's attention, though, was that she was wearing a two piece bathing suit and the top was dangling from her hand, leaving her topless. The girls, naturally, had often seen each other naked. But answering the door holding the top of your bathing suit was unusual. As was wearing one in the depths of the Georgian winter. It was below

zero Celsius, outside and blowing hard. A bathing suit didn't make much sense. Even with the heaters, the caravanserai was cold. "Katya, please," Martya said. "We cannot study with all the noise." "That's a problem," Katya admitted, lowering the suit. "Because I'm studying." "What?" Martya said, then noticed that there was another woman in the room. She was older and dressed in Western clothes. Not very pretty even when she was younger, Martya was sure. "That you don't need to know," Katya replied. "Can you at least stop the whooping?" Martya asked. "That is what is getting us." "No, I need to do the whooping," Katya said. "I won't be doing this much longer. I think." "Okay," Martya said with a sigh. "Sorry to have bothered you." "No problem," Katya said. "I just need to get back in character." "Okay," Martya said as the door closed in her face. "What did that mean?" *** "I have to wonder if this is really necessary," Katya said, waving the bathing suit back and forth. "And I'm freezing." "You'd be surprised how cold it can get at Daytona Beach in spring," Jay replied, gesturing with his chin at the muted TV set. "Look at the nipples. Most of those girls are quite cold." "Yeah?" Katya said, striking a pose. "Well, look at mine." "I've seen them," Jay replied, evenly. "If you're prepared to continue?" "Why in the hell would I want to be on a 'Girls Gone Wild' video?" Katya asked. "You don't," Jay replied. "Ever. Be assured of that. But you do need to learn to mimic the actions. Girls like that can get into virtually anywhere but a shield room, and you'd be surprised how many have made it that far. Playing the stupid, wild, partying slut is a very good cover. Among other things, if you have to avoid capture, slipping into that guise is a good way for a girl as good looking as you to disappear. Change your appearance slightly, go into a club and be the sluttiest slut there. Pick up one of the many guys who are hankering for you, take him home and stay there overnight. No hotel room, no traceable apartment. I can think of a thousand reasons to learn this particular cover. That you cannot troubles me." "This padwan asks the Master's apology," Katya said, bowing with a smirk. "I see what you mean, though." "Now, let us work on the removing the top again," Jay said with a sigh. "I will admit that I'm enjoying the sight, I am heterosexual, but you are just not doing it right. If you'd only spent some time as a stripper it might help. With mental conditioning if nothing else. You have to feel the need to expose yourself and you so dislike the very thought that it is interfering."

"I've been naked in front of many men," Katya said, coldly. "And none of them have ever known I was not happy about it." "I do," Jay said. "Any trained observer would see it in you. Most men, yes, are not so trained. But it is not those you need fear. If you are in a situation like this the most you need to worry about is a Rohypnol slipped in your drink or date-rape. Don't drink anything you don't see poured by the bartender for the former. Since you are intending to fulfill your side of an implied contract inherent in going home with a male from such a party, you need not fear the latter. You, in fact, need to let go of your fear. That is what is trapping you. You will not be the agent you could be until you stop fearing men." "I don't fear men," Katya said. "I just want to kill them all." "Are you refusing to accept my training?" Jay asked, calmly. "No," Katya replied, quickly. That was the one agreement between them. Katya would do whatever Jay told her in training and the only punishment was that, if she stopped learning, if she decided she knew more than he, he would simply stop training her. Since Katya wanted to know it all, she was very careful to be on her best behavior with the master spy. "Then do not challenge that statement," Jay said. "Especially since it's true. Are you unaware that you fear men or unwilling to admit it?" "Unwilling to admit it," Katya said after a moment. "You cannot carry that baggage and be who you should be," Jay said. "Almost all women fear men at some level. It is one part of their nature, one you should be aware of. Men are, by and large, bigger, stronger and more aggressive. Men go through life with a predator mindset, women with that of prey. But you, Katya, need never fear them again. You are the predator. What do you fear? Being beaten? You have survived beatings and more. Being raped? You have survived that. Dying? If it came to that, most men would have a hard time killing you unless they surprised you. As you know having killed a few who were trying to do the opposite. You are not one of the girls in this video. You are not virtually defenseless before a stronger male. But you still fear." "Yes," Katya admitted. "But these women, these girls, these do not," Jay said, restarting the video. "Watch them carefully. They are enjoying themselves. They have no fear of the stares, of the shouts, of the attention. Oh, a few do. That mousey girl on the left, brown hair and nipples. She is afraid of the attention. Basically introverted I suspect or just raised in a prudish environment. Generally not a problem unless you're in a situation like that. I have no clue why she is up there having ice water dashed on her. A dare from friends? A boyfriend who has psychological power over her? Drink? But she fears. Could you be her? You would have to wrap yourself around your fear, show it, use it, let it blossom in your eyes? Could you do that? And still be the predator you truly are?" "No," Katya said. "Then, again, you are not the person you must be," Jay said, stopping the video again. "When you can be that girl, up there on stage in a wet t-shirt contest, on TV no less, afraid of all the consequences,

the men suddenly charging the stage, her parents seeing the video, her friends back at college whispering behind her back, guys figuring she's a slut and only after her body, then, padwan, you will be on the road to perfection. But we will concentrate on the blonde in the striped bathing suit again. Now, in character. . . Whoop!" *** "Mike open the damned door," Adams said. The damned wood was hurting his knuckles. He stepped into the room and looked around. He hadn't been up to Mike's sanctum before but it was pretty cozy. A radiator kept it warm, nice paneled walls, the chair looked comfortable. On the other hand, it smelled. Stank, really. Booze, the bottles were all over the place, and just the reek of a person who hadn't washed enough spent in a small room too long. "I gotta ask," Adams said. "What's behind the steel plate? Everybody is dying to know. A black hole? A TV? What?" "None of your God damned business," Mike said. Mike Harmon was thirty-seven years old, brown of hair and eye, medium height with a muscular build due to years as a SEAL instructor. An almost prescient talent for silent-kill, had earned him the nickname "Ghost" while on the SEAL teams. After sixteen years as a SEAL, mostly an instructor in everything from "direct action" to HALO, he had found himself physically beaten and psychologically unsuitable to the Teams. So he'd gotten out and gone to college. It was a long road to being the Kildar, one with half the terrorists on earth searching for a guy codenamed Ghost, but he'd made it every step of the way. The scars on his body, and in his heart, were proof. "What do you want, Ass-boy?" Mike asked. "Ass-boy yourself," Adams replied. "We've got a mission." "I heard," Mike said. "We really don't need the money and I'm tired of laying it on the line over and over and over again. So. . .no." "I want to go." "Go." "I want to take two teams." Mike finally looked at him then back at the wall. "Whatever." "Is that a 'yes' o Kildar?" Adams asked, angrily. "Just try not to fuck up too much," Mike said. "Now get out." "Christ, I really should beat the crap out of you," Adams said. "Do you really think you could?" Mike asked, his teeth grinding.

"In your current condition?" Adams said. "Hell, yeah. Let me tell you something, Kildar. I had a talk with your team chief after you quit. I wanted to know how such a God damned good operator could have had his ass fucking fired by a Chief I knew had his head on his shoulders. And do you want to know what he said? It had dick all to do with the AD, by the way." "I could give a fuck less," Mike said. "Now would you get the fuck out?" "He said you weren't hard-core enough," Adams replied. "Simple as that. You'd gotten soft playing big boy instructor with the meats. You thought it was all a big game, that you could just wave a fucking stress card and get a point for effort. He called you a fucking cry-baby. When I pulled you out of that fucking bunker, I couldn't figure what the fuck he was talking about. But he saw it when I didn't. You're a fucking crybaby. So you lost a piece of ass. Ass is cheap buddy. You got a dozen pieces here in the house. There's more in the Keldara and they're all willing and you know it. So get off your fucking ass!" "You done?" Mike asked, calmly. "Yeah," Adams said, sighing. "Go do the mission," Mike said. "Collect a bonus. Then stay in the fucking States. I don't want to see your face again after that door shuts." "You're fucking firing me?" Adams said, incredulous. "Well then, fuck you, I'll just leave." "Big mission," Mike pointed out. "American civilians might die. You might stop that. And do you really want the Keldara wandering around the US alone?" "Fuck," Adams said. "You know just where the buttons are, don't you?" "You weren't hired for your brains," Mike replied. "By the same token, you should know when you're out of your depth on something. And you just proved you don't. So I don't want you around." "What the fuck does that mean?" Adams asked. "You've been married, what? Six times? Which means that you're the perfect SEAL, more balls than brains and no fucking heart at all. It's just a piece of ass. Big fucking deal. Which meant you had no clue what you were just saying. No fucking clue at all. Since you don't even have the introspection to realize that, please leave this room and get the fuck out of my life. Go do the mission and then just. . .leave." "I should have left you to die in that damned bunker," Adams said, hitting the door control. "I wish you had," Mike whispered after the door was closed. Then he raised the plate. . . ***

Chapter Two

Adams stepped off the plane and breathed deep. Humid as hell and about 70 degrees. Ah, Florida winter. Homestead Air Force Base was located just south of the city of Miami near the town of Homestead, Florida. The base had once housed a variety of bombers from Strategic Air Command, back in the days when "pad alert" had teeth. But the end of the Cold War had caused various reevaluations of the base, especially given the pressures from the burgeoning Miami area. However, its strategic location – it was the only base that really had a lock on the Caribbean – had kept it at minimal status. Demoted to an "Air Force Reserve Base" it, nonetheless, maintained a squadron of "reserve" F-16s which maintained an anti-terror Combat Air Patrol over the Miami area as well as supporting the anti-drug planes that patrolled the region. The old girl was getting a little weary, but hanging in there. "Mr. Adams?" the officer waiting for them asked, holding out a hand. "I'm Lieutenant Mike Himes, sir. I'm your liaison officer." "Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant," Adams said. The officer was tall and almost skeletally thin, maybe weighing 150 if he was soaking wet. A shock of red hair was apparent under the beret. Adams had learned to read Army doo-dads over the years, though, and the LT was wearing a CIB and a combat patch from the 3rdID. "I've arranged billeting for your personnel on base," the Lt. continued, waving to the terminal building. "I think we've got a hotel set up," Adams said. "Sorry about that. The usual cluster fuck. But we'll need someplace to store our gear." "About that. . .yes," the LT said. "We've got a meeting just about to start you probably should attend. The joint headquarters for the action teams is here on base. You'll be able to meet all the movers if you know what I mean, sir. And there are some issues to resolve." "Ain't there always," Adams said with a sigh. "I swear that's why the colonel stayed behind; he didn't want to sit in the meetings." "Possibly, sir," the LT said. "I've got escorts for your personnel and a truck is on the way to pick up their gear. We'll arrange transport to town. If you could follow me?" *** "Hello my old friend," Kurt said in perfect German. It was, after all, his native language. He was sitting in an open air bar in Bimini, listening to some really awful rap music. But the view was spectacular since some Canadian girls were down on vacation and seemed to quite enjoy the caterwauling.

"Hello," the man on the phone said. "I thought you should know that your friends are arriving today." "Is that so?" Kurt said. "Then I think we should make plans to receive them well, don't you think?" "Arrangements have already been made," the man said. "I was just informing you. They will be well taken care of." "Wonderful," Kurt said, hanging up the phone. "Just perfect." *** The meeting room featured a long table with seats at it and along the walls behind. Most of the seats were filled when Adams arrived. "This way, sir," Himes whispered, leading Adams to one of the chairs then taking the one behind him. "Who are you?" the guy next to Adams asked, leaning over. He was a heavy-set guy wearing a FEMA jacket. In fact, most of the people in the room, males and females, wore jackets denoting their agencies. Maybe he should have Mike make up jackets for the Keldara so people would know who they were. No, fuck Mike. After this one he was gone. "I'm not sure I get to tell you that," Adams said. "Or you'd have to kill me?" the man joked. Adams turned and just stared. "Been there, done that." "Oookay," the man said, turning back to the table. "This meeting is in order." The man at the head of the table was a Navy admiral. Adams vaguely recognized him but he wasn't a SEAL admiral, not that there were many of those. Flyboy if Adams recalled. "We need to start by signing the standard form," the Admiral said, unsealing the briefing document in front of him with a letter opener. Adams looked at the folder, puzzled, for a moment then pulled out his Spyderco folding knife and slit open the top. Inside was another envelope with a form on the front. He perused it for a moment, shrugged, then signed the bottom. "Collect them," the Admiral said when everyone had finished signing the forms. It was apparent that some of them had taken the time to read the fine print. Slowly. His aide circled the room, picking up the forms then took them back to the admiral. The admiral then proceeded to read each of them.

"CBP," the admiral said, looking over at the representative from Customs and Border Protection. "You have an objection to Clause Two?" Adams had long before learned the technique of sleeping at the drop of a hat. He wasn't sure how long it was before someone poked him the back. "Mr.. . .Adams?" the admiral said. "Sir?" the Master Chief replied, sitting up. "You're heading the. . .Georgian contingent?" the admiral asked. "I see that you have clearance for this briefing but I'm not sure what your part in all of this is." "We're just here to help out, sir," Adams said. "We have both a team of intel specialists and a team of shooters. If you localize anything, we can take it down. Guaranteed." "Excuse me?" the FBI rep said, leaning over to look down the table. "What did you just say?" "I think it was pretty obvious," Adams replied. "I mean, why else did we fly all this way?" "We have two tac teams, highly trained tac teams I might add, standing by," the FBI rep said. "If anything needs to be 'taken down' it will be licensed officers of the United States government." "Fine," Adams said, pulling out a cigar. He wasn't much of a smoker, but there were times. . . "Then I'll just sit here and nap." "There is no smoking in this room," the admiral snapped. "Admiral, you wanna check where my authority comes from?" the Master Chief replied, lighting up. "Because I could give a rat's ass if this is a non-smoking area. Or what anyone in this room cares about it." The aide leaned forward and whispered in the admiral's ear at which point the officer nodded. "Sorry, Mr. Adams," the admiral said. "Smoke your cigar by all means. In fact, smoke a dog turd if you so wish." "Those things will kill you, you know," the FEMA rep said. But he wasn't waving the smoke away, which was something. "I've got the life expectancy of a gnat anyway," Adams said, tapping an ash into the water glass in front of him. "They're not that great for me, either," the FEMA rep pointed out. "Yeah, well I don't really care about your life expectancy much, either," Adams said. "And it would go up a bit if you'd lay off the fatty foods, Heart Attack Boy." "Gentlemen and ladies, open your briefing documents, please," the admiral said. "The situation is this. We have highly credible intelligence that Al Qaeda is moving a shipment of VX gas into the United States."

"Fuck," Adams whispered. "You didn't know?" the FEMA rep asked. He didn't seem too put out over the "Heart Attack Boy" thing. "All I got was that it was WMD," Adams whispered back. "VX, as most of you know, is a binary nerve agent," the admiral said, reading off notes. "That means that it has two chemicals that are combined to make VX in the field. In systems such as artillery shells they get combined after they're fired but the materials can be combined up to a week before use and still retain full potency. Each of the chemicals is dangerous by themselves defined as Class Four Hazardous Materials. However, when combined they are lethal in very small doses. It's referred to as odorless and tasteless. What that actually means is that if you taste it or smell it you're already dead. "VX, like all nerve agents, works by interfering with neurotransmission. I'm sure I'm covering old ground for most of you but the first sign of exposure is involuntary muscle movement, dizziness and nausea followed by convulsions, respiration failure and death. What it does not do, despite the movie about the stuff, is bubble your skin off. Twist you up like a dying bug? That it does. "The best method of insertion is via the eyes followed by inhalation, especially through the sinuses, and then skin contact. The material is not a gas at normal temperatures so it is normally distributed as droplets. One droplet, smaller than a drop from an eyedropper, on the skin is lethal. For that matter, it only takes a few picograms in the eyes. That's smaller than you can see. "There is a cargo container of VX believed to be bound for the south Florida area," the admiral continued. "Insertion method is unknown at this time. We have located and seized the suspect ship but it was empty of all such cargo. The crew has admitted, under questioning, that it veered from the sealanes and that there were others aboard that left sometime during that change of course. The numbers are unclear. The ship is a tramp freighter owned by shell companies probably connected to Al Qaeda. That is where we're at." Adams actually managed to stay awake through most of the meeting. He wished he hadn't been, but what the hell. And the situation was definitely under control. Definitely. The FBI had two thousand agents in place or on the way. The Coast Guard was redeploying. The CIA was "hot on the trail." The FBI was "developing leads." Customs and Border Protection had the ports "locked down solid." FEMA was "fully prepared", courtesy of the guy in the seat next to him. The Coast Guard was "all over the situation." Hell, the Navy had a "solid lock on all action items." "And what do the Georgians have for us?" the admiral asked after about an hour of ritual chestbeating. "Dick all," Adams said. He'd finished off the cigar long before and was wondering when the damned meeting would end so he could get a beer and wash the taste out. "Oh, we do have a top-flight intel team that doesn't give a rat's ass how it collects the intel. And one of the best WMD experts on the face of the earth. And a group of shooters who could probably wipe your Fibbies in about two seconds. And a record of doing this sort of shit and succeeding. Other than that? Not much." "If you violate privacy there's no way we can get a conviction," the FBI rep pointed out, angrily.

"These guys are all going to Guantanamo, anyway," Adams said. "Who cares? You do, that's who. So you're going to go around 'developing leads' right up until you hit that constitutional protection thing. Then give it to us." "Chief Adams," the FBI rep said, diplomatically. "This is the United States. There are laws. While I'm sure you're very good at what you do, if you do any of those things Federal and local law enforcement would be forced to detain you pending charges." "Fine, fine," Adams said, holding up his hands. "In that case, got nothin. We done? I need a beer." "I think we're done," the admiral said. "Could I speak to you Mr. Adams?" "I need a beer, too," the FEMA rep said, getting up and taking the documents he could exit with. "But good luck. My job is just to clean up the mess. This is too much mess to want to think about." "I'll do what I can," Adams said. "Hey. You want some real beer?" "Sure," the FEMA rep said, frowning. "Get with the LT and we'll arrange a meet," Adams said, standing up. "Don't worry, you'll like it." He made his way through the crowd to the admiral who was talking to the CIA rep. Another guy wearing a DEA jacket was apparently part of the pitch. "They're not used to smuggling into the US," the CIA guy was saying. "It's almost sure to be containers. We'll probably catch those with the sniffers, but I think the main angle of attack is on the shipping company. They are going to have transferred to another ship." "So what do you need?" the admiral asked. "More support," the DEA guy replied. "Especially from the FBI. They're trying to find the inside groups. Let's stop it before it gets here. Seriously, south Florida used to be a smuggler's haven but we've got it locked down pretty tight these days. I don't think they're coming in here. I think the ship was a feint; they're probably going through Mexico. The ship probably transferred on an out-island or at sea and another ship is carrying it to Mexico. And to crunch the numbers, run down those leads, we need to get the FBI to quit dicking around with opening doors all over Miami. The guys they're talking to my guys already know. They do drugs, not VX. Hell, they're ruining a dozen cases and stepping all over us!" "I'll talk to the FBI," the admiral said. "But you guys are the outside. So get outside. If it's not coming in here, find out where it is coming in. You should be arranging that right now, not moaning to me. So go do it." The two left leaving Adams alone with the admiral and his aide. "Master Chief," the admiral said, sitting down and waving to a seat. "I wasn't sure if the Admiral remembered me, sir," Adams said, taking the seat. "I didn't," the admiral said. "I finally read the briefing document. But there are problems." "Aren't there always," Adams said.

"I don't particularly like the way the FBI rep phrased it, but he was on point," the admiral said. "This is the US. We have laws. And, face it, we own the waters around this area. So I'm not sure what you're here for." "I'm not sure, either, sir," Adams said. "But we're here. Turn us loose." "And that's the other problem," the officer said, sighing. "Your intel group. I suppose you want to go around tapping phones and listening for intercepts and trailing suspects. The FBI can do all of that and I would suspect better. And they'll do it legally. Slowly, unfortunately. The fastest I've ever personally heard of one of them getting Title III clearance was seven days. And that can only be used for drug cases. FISA. . .longer. However, what you would be doing is illegal. As would be the case if you fire a weapon in anything other than self-defense. Now, given your pull, you could probably escape justice. If we could keep it off the news. You see where this is going?" "We sit on our hands?" Adams asked, angrily. "You want us to just sit on our hands?" "I'll try to find something for you to do, legally," the admiral said. "But right now I'm not sure what." "Yes, sir," Adams said, taking a deep breath. "And Master Chief?" "Yes, sir?" "If you fuck me over on this I will put your ass in Guantanamo and throw away the key." ***

Chapter Three

"Hey, Master Chief," Vanner said as Adams strode into the suite. "What you get at the meeting?" "Dick all," Adams said, walking over to the fridge. He was followed by Lt. Himes who was looking around the room with interest. "You got anything?" "Sort of," Vanner said. "I arranged for an intel dump, but it's not complete. Our clearances are 'under review.' It's a bunch, though. The girls are sorting it at the moment. I looked at the analysis and, frankly, it's shitty. These guys either don't keep up with the players or are incompetent as hell. I did pick up one item that's sort of funny, in a way." "What?" Adams asked. "I could use some funny. LT, you want a beer?" "Sounds great," Lt. Himes said, taking off his BDU top. "The original data on this came from Al-Kariya," Vanner said, grinning. "Well, him and his laptop." "Al who?" Adams asked, pulling out two ceramic bottles and opening the wax tops expertly. He handed one of them to Himes and flopped into one of the chairs. "That Al Qaeda money guy we picked up in Chechnya," Vanner said. "The one we rolled into the bird all wrapped up like a Christmas turkey." "Wait," Himes said, holding up the beer glass. "You're the guys who were in that battle with the Chechens, right? Jesus, that sniper shot. Everybody's sure that came from some guy bellied down closer. I've been running that vid over and over again looking for him." "Nope," Adams said. "Lasko. The guy's pure magic with a rifle. Damn near three klicks. Yeah, that's us." "Damn," Himes said, sitting back and taking a sip. He pulled the bottle back from his lips and held it up with a stunned expression. "DAMN. What the hell is this stuff? It tastes sort of like Mountain Tiger but it's. . . Fuck it's better!" "It is Mountain Tiger," Vanner said, chuckling. "It's just that the stuff we sell in the US is our crap. The Keldara bitch unmercifully when that's all they get to drink. So whenever possible, we bring the pure quill. And that's. . ." he looked that the casting on the bottle and shrugged. "Hell, that's Mother Kulcyanov's brew. It's not a patch on Mother Lenka's." "I think I'm gonna like this detail," Himes said, grinning. "And I begin to understand why they're such good shooters if this is what they're protecting. But. . ." He stopped speaking when the side door of the suite opened and a fucking vision walked in the room. "What'cha got, Grez?" Vanner asked as the intel girl walked over with a document. "Do you Americans even use face matching software?" Greznya asked, angrily. "Probably not," Adams said, burping. "Be accused of racial profiling or something."

"Zaman Al-Sabad," Greznya said, dropping the picture on the desk. "He is an Al-Qaeda member who specializes in shipping. He arrived on a flight from Mexico this afternoon under a false name, Farhad Nejat. There's a picture, though, from the customs security cameras." "Lots of people," Himes said, frowning. "Lots of faces. It would take forever to do facial matches on them all." "Not if you do a visual sort for Islamic looks," Greznya said, scathingly. "That only turned up about two hundred. We hit this one on the first pass. He's not even disguised! He's on your own terrorism watch list for the All Father's sake!" "Racial profiling," Himes said. "That, right there, would get the data thrown out of court. Even if it didn't, the defense attorney would use it and if you got the right jury it would get the guy acquitted." "Americans are so stupid?" Greznya asked, confused. "Every major terrorist attack on your people has been by Islamic males between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five. Paying particular attention to such people simply makes sense. When a person that looks Islamic comes through the Keldara region you can be sure that we take a closer look. What is that thing about if it walks like a duck?" "Welcome to the land of the free," Adams said, sourly. "You've watched CNN, surely. Liberals aren't going to admit that until the Islamics have cut off their balls and put them all under jizya." "No wonder the President called us," Greznya said, shaking her head. "He is not even covering his trail. There is a record of him, under his false name, reserving a hotel room here in Miami." "The who?" Himes asked. "Well, now, ain't that interesting," Adams said, ignoring the question. "Daria found us an out-of-theway warehouse, yet?" "Not yet," Vanner said. "But we can lay in some collection on his room, put in a trail." "Yeah, but can we do a quiet snatch?" Adams asked. "Where's the hotel?" Vanner asked. "It's something called a Best Western," Greznya said. "Just south of here near the junction of your Turnpike and a road called US1. I have a map. The layout is for exterior rooms. He has a room on the ground floor towards the back." "Uh," Himes said, holding up his hand. "You got a problem with any of this, LT, you just take your beer and go to the other room," Adams said. "Actually," Himes said, "I was hoping I could go along. I haven't done an entry in a few months but I figure it's like riding a bicycle. . ." ***

The Best Western was just north of the long stretch of marsh that separated the keys from the Florida mainland. Near the turn-off for Everglades National Park and convenient to the Keys it was often packed on weekends. At four o'clock in the morning on a Wednesday, the parking lot was nearly deserted. There was a large moving truck parked towards the back and a few tourist cars. Vanner had elected to not even lay in a physical bug; they could get plenty of take from a laser mike. The laser bounced off the window of the room and reflected in tune with sound waves. By reading the vibration of the window everything said in the room could be monitored. He'd put in a connection to the hotel phones as well and with Al-Sabat's voice print, which they already had, they could filter for all the other calls out of the hotel. They'd also pin-pointed his satellite phone. The target had left twice, once to go to a local convenience store and the second time to the nearby Golden Corral for dinner. He had participated in a number of conversations, including some to overseas numbers, during the evening, up until one AM when his light finally went off. Most of them, with the exception of a call to his mother, had dealt with moving, buying and selling various goods. All of them could have been codes but, if so, Sabat would soon be explaining that. "You two stay back and take security," Adams repeated as the Ford Expedition started. "I don't know why you talked me into this." "Because you like my stunning good looks," Vanner said, grinning. He was, for once, all suited up, MP-5, balaclava and all. You could see his grin right through the mask. "Because I've done this sort of thing before," Himes added. "I've got plenty of shooters," Adams said. "You just do the door then swing back." "Got it," Himes said, cocking the shotgun. The Expedition pulled to a stop and he unassed, charging the door. He could hear the assault team stacking up behind him so he pointed the shotgun at the lock and pulled the trigger. The round was a breaching round, a standard 12 gauge shotgun shell but with a projectile that was a frangible powdered metal slug that would destroy the lock but not over penetrate or result in dangerous fragments to the shooter. The round worked as advertised, destroying the lock and permitting Himes to open the door with one swift kick. He rolled to the side, pointed outwards, and cocked the shotgun, ejecting the spent breacher and load a livie, then he took a knee. There was a sound of brief struggle inside and he turned to the side. "Never done this before?" he asked the intel specialist. "Not for real," Vanner replied. "I. . ." His eyes flew wide as the doors of the moving van rolled up and a similarly armed and armored group started to pile out. "FREEZE! POLICE!" the leader of the tac team yelled. "Drop your weapons and get down. NOW!"

"Wait, we're with. . ." Vanner said, puzzled by something about the man's words, just as the first round cracked into his chest. *** At the sound of the shouting, Adams turned to the door and saw the tac team running across the parking lot. He also saw them shoot Vanner and Himes, which was all he needed. Fucking cops don't just shoot people down who have the hands up. Besides, most cops, even in Miami, don't have accents. He took a position alongside the door, not that it gave any sort of cover, and began returning fire, taking two of the tac team down with two shots. Suddenly, the three Keldara shooters were by his side and it turned into a general melee. Adams rolled through the door, taking cover behind some tourist's Taurus then popped up, getting two more. The tac team was taking cover around the cars as well so he took it to them, running to the rear of the Taurus and spotting another. Tango down. The Keldara had spread out from the room as well and they swept right. But neither group had noticed one of the shooters huddled alongside a minivan. The man stood up, aimed his AR-15 and fired five rounds at the Master Chief. Adams felt the hit, like a punch in his side, and spun sideways, firing one handed into the tac team member. The man flew back, a 5.56mm hole in the center of his browridge. "Master Chief," Vil said, running over to where Adams was slumped against the Taurus. "We need to unass," Adams gasped. He was hit pretty bad but he was still functional. He'd been hit before. Not this bad, but he could still function. "Go to the air field we landed at. Get into the cars and go. Don't speed." "Vanner is hit badly," Arvidas said. "I think Lieutenant Himes is dead." "Fuck," Adams said. "We got to go." *** "Fuck." Nielson rubbed his forehead angrily. "Did they at least get Sabat?" "According to the colonel I spoke to they are sure it's not Sabat at all," Vil said, miserably. "Sabat is reported to have been at an office in Yemen for the last week. And we recovered documents from the room. They are. . . I guess you would call it a script. And he had a modifier so that his voice was similar."

"It was a trap," Nielson said. "Yes," Vil replied. "We are at the airbase in the town of Homestead. All of us. We have been given quarters and are. . . we are told not to leave. The Master Sergeant is at the hospital here, Sergeant Vanner is in another in Miami. "Colonel, the man said one other thing. I think that this attack was supposed to get the Kildar." "Yeah, well I'll let him think about that one," Nielson said. "In about two minutes." *** "What now?" Mike yelled. "Open the door." Nielson strode in, his face twitching and stood in front of Mike, arms crossed. "Open the God damned plate," Nielson said. "If that's all you've got, get the hell out." "Open the GOD DAMNED PLATE YOU WHINY ASSED BITCH! Is that good enough for you?" "Fuck you," Mike snarled. "Fuck you, fuck Adams, fuck you all!" "Just open the plate, Mike," Nielson said, calmly. "Then I'll tell you why I'm asking." Mike looked at him for a moment then hit the solenoid, raising the plate. Nielson spun in place and considered the painting for a long time. "It's good." "Yeah, it is. Cost enough." "The lips are all wrong, though." "Yes, they are." "The team liaison is dead. Vanner is critical. Adams is shot up." Nielson spun in place again, arms still crossed. "How?" Mike asked, hoarsely. "A trap," Nielson replied. "One meant to catch you." Mike stood up very slowly and walked to the painting. He touched the shoulder of the girl, lightly, then turned. "Call Chief D'Allaird. You know the Dragon?"

"Yeah, I know the Dragon." "Paint it black."

Chapter Four

"The good news is that if it's coming in on anything other than a freighter, we've got some time." Admiral Ryan had to admit that was true. The storm wasn't a tropical storm or hurricane, those came later in the year. But it was a late winter cold front that had damned near the same effects. The wind howled, the rain poured, lightning flashed and there were small boat advisories all up and down the coast. "Some good news for a change," Ryan said, leaning against the wall of the room. If only that damned SEAL had told them! They would have cross-checked Sabat's movements and figured out it couldn't be him. If they'd picked up the data these Keldara characters had, it would have been an obvious ruse. On the other hand, he'd looked at the data they were given and knew it wasn't all on their shoulders. Sabat was clearly shown on everyone else's data as being in Yemen. The Keldara weren't given the full update. Which had been pointed out to him, in very small words, by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He wasn't sure why DC thought these guys walked on water, but. . . Then there was the third point. The guy posing as Sabat had waltzed straight through ever system designed to detect people just like him. And the Keldara had turned him up in less than three hours. Turned him up while their chief was in a meeting and snatched the supposed terrorist, successfully, despite being attacked from behind in a planned assault. The Keldara hadn't fucked up, he had. As the Chairman was also good enough to point out. He'd chosen to give them the filtered database. But was he just supposed to hand over everything to these damned people? "Sir, can I ask something?" the DEA rep asked. "Sure." "Why are you standing here?" "I was told to expect a high-level delegate," the admiral said. "I was told that he'd be arriving by this door. And flying in." "No planes," the DEA rep continued, looking out the door of the terminal. "The big guys can barely get out of Miami-Dade. No helos. Not for a couple of days." The words had barely gotten out of his mouth when the sound of rotors could be heard through the storm. "What the fuck is that?" There was music, too. A slow beat and a man singing.

"Warren Zevon I believe," the admiral said, shaking his head as a black Hind dropped out of the storm. "The Envoy." The Hind didn't bother with the marked helo-pad, instead dropping by the terminal with bare clearance for the rotors. As a piece of driving on a clear day it would have been impressive. With the storm it was amazing. As a fork of lightning rippled the horizon, the door of the bird slid open and a man in casual clothes, slacks, polo shirt, nice shoes, got out in the driving rain. If he noticed that it was pouring it was not apparent. He was medium height with a heavy build and brown hair that flowed onto his forehead in the storm. He strode through the downpour, not bothering to duck the rotors, straight up to the door. "You Ryan?" the man said. "Admiral Ryan, yes," the admiral said, straightening up. "And you are?" "You can call me the Kildar," the man said, turning to the DEA rep, his head tracking like a turret. "Who are you?" "Bob Johnson," the DEA rep said, sticking out his hand. "What kind of a name is Kildar?" "The kind that will cut your fucking hand off if you don't pull it back," Mike said, tracking back to the admiral. "I read the report on this clusterfuck on the bird over. If you fuck with me I will have you chipping paint the next morning. In Diego Garcia. Are we clear?" "Clear," the admiral said, his jaw flexing. "You are going to open Harmony and every other base you've got, fully," Mike continued. "But my top intel guy is in a coma in the hospital so I need an intel spec familiar with your systems and DEA's and FBI's and every other fucking acronym. I need her by tomorrow. Somebody who is not PC and doesn't give a fuck what happens to terrorists. Tell her to take a plane to Nassau, send her data to me, pic, name the whole deal. This time don't leave anything out. I'll take over from there." "Her?" Ryan asked, raising his eyebrows. "All my intel people but one are women," Mike said. "The one is in the hospital. I'm not going to explain to some cockhound know-it-all to sit the fuck down. Her. Tomorrow. In Nassau." He spun on his heel and headed back out into the storm. "Where are you going?" the DEA rep asked, sharply. "The command center is here." "I'm going where you dick-brains can't fuck my op up," Mike said, pausing but not turning around. "Your job from here on out is to give me intel. I'll take it from there." *** Mike walked in the hospital room and shook his head. "You grow 'em up, you let 'em wear shoes. . ." "Hey, Boss," Adams said, wincing. "I'm good. Get these canker merchants to let me go." He was wheezing as he said it.

"You've got GSWs to the upper chest," Mike pointed out. "That's not something you just up and walk away from. Not even you, Master Chief." "You see Vanner?" Adams said, looking away. "Yeah," Mike said. "Still in ICU. Doc says he's probably going to make it. But he's unconscious, still. Not a coma they tell me, just sleeping. I told the Doc I could wake him up if he wanted me to. They didn't think it was very funny. But I need him back at work." "I can work," Adams said, flexing his jaw. "If you still want me." "I was stressed," Mike said, walking over and sitting on the bed. "I'd like to have you back. You okay with coming back?" "I'm good," the Master Chief said, looking away. "Sorry about what I said." "Not an issue," Mike replied. "I'd heard the cry-baby line before, by the way. From the team chief. Right before I told him to shove it up his ass. But I've had a long time to think about it, too. . ." "I was wrong to say it," Adams said. "Whatever you are, you're not a crybaby." "Wrong," Mike said. "From his perspective, from yours, I am. Want to hear the rest?" "This crybaby time?" Adams said. "Because I could cry a fucking bucket. I really fucked up." "No, you didn't," Mike said. "I did. I sent you out on something that I knew was over your head. That's my fuck-up, Chuck. And that's what this is about. You got your thinking cap on, Master Chief?" "Go," Adams said. "What's a crybaby?" Mike asked. "I never shed a tear on the teams. Never whined. Never quit. But there was something different about me. I didn't fit in. It came across to the team chief as soft and in a way it is. You're always asking how come I can make the girls happy. That's part of it, too. You starting to get a feeling, here?" "When you were talking about stalking," Adams said, nodding. "Something about feeling the other guy." "It's called empathy," Mike said. "But it's more than that. It's a. . . feel for a situation. I don't know if the alarm bells would have gone off on that op or not, but they have from time to time. You remember how I was so heavy on ammo for the raid on the last op?" "Too much for what we were doing," Adams said, nodding. "Especially since we had to hump it all in." "I knew that it was going to go to hell," Mike said. "Not how bad, but I knew it was going to go to hell. It's a sense, not just when things are right in front of me but broader. It's one of the reasons I can command well, too. I can sense the needs of the guys, sometimes before they even know they're there. But having that sense. . . it makes me soft. Soft like an M&M. Crunchy on the outside with a softy candy inside. Not much breaks that shell, but. . ." "When it breaks," Adams said.

"Yep," Mike said, standing up and heading to the door. "One difference. When it breaks, then reforms, well there's a good side and a bad side. Good side is, there ain't much crybaby there, now. Bad side. . . there ain't much of anything at all." *** Lt. Britney Harder watched, fascinated, as the Lynx helo dropped towards the broad deck of the yacht. The entire transfer had been interesting. First she'd received a call to report to the SOCOM commander. Not his office, the General. There she'd been handed tickets and told to wear civilian clothes. She was going to Nassau and that was all the General either knew or was going to tell her. At first she'd been pissed. There was a major op going down right next door in Miami. She'd only caught pieces of it, it wasn't in her compartment, but it was big. Sooner or later she was going to get in. And she knew the op involved fucking muj. Britney seriously wanted a piece of anything that hurt Islamic terrorists. She had scores to settle. But she hadn't been drawn in and, honestly, she probably wouldn't. She'd drawn the South American shop, the Narc Shop as they put it. There was a low probability that she'd have a chance to do anything about the fucking muj. So flying to the Bahamas wasn't all bad. When she'd arrived at the airport, though, she hadn't known where to go. When a man walked up and looked her up and down she'd assumed he was just more obvious than normal. Britney Harder was 5' 5" tall with long, curly, blonde hair, a deeply cleft chin and a gorgeous if underendowed figure. She also had an issue with guys just examining her at close range. She'd gotten over having issues with guys, period, but she still didn't care for jerks who couldn't keep their eyes in their heads. "Can I help you?" she'd snapped. "Lt. Harder?" the man had said. Accent. Balkans or Russian. Slavic derivation, anyway. "Yes." "Come." He'd led her out to the Lynx, opened the door politely, then climbed in behind. The pilots were females, Americans from what she'd caught of the accent, and they were good. The cold front that had pushed through Florida was breaking up over the southern Bahamas but Nassau still caught a piece of it. The skies were gray and the wind was whipping but if either pilot cared it wasn't apparent. The ride had been rough but Britney kept her light breakfast. She'd once been one of those kids who could throw up in a second if it meant avoiding school. And it helped during her brief bulimic period in high school. But once upon a time she'd seen some things, done some things, that made throwing up thereafter pretty much pointless.

The pilots again showed how good they were by putting the Lynx down on the deck of the moored yacht in what could be called a gale as if it was perfect calm. "Out," the man said, opening the door. She was only carrying two bags and as she unassed the bird a man came over and took the larger one. "It will be in your room," the man said. He was wearing a pair of white pants, a black belt and a tight shirt with a tiger embroidered on the upper left chest. Good looking, too. Damned good looking. So was the guy who'd picked her up for that matter. "Thank you," Britney said, holding onto her purse and backpack. "This way," her escort said, waving to a door, hatch, whatever, in the side of the yacht. The yacht was big enough that it had a hangar for the helo. But men weren't rolling it in, tying it down instead. Given the conditions she was surprised. Maybe it was going somewhere soon. Maybe there was already something in the hangar. Data item. The interior corridor was paneled in light wood with tasteful paintings gracing it and the floor covered in plush carpeting. Given that the yacht looked to be about a hundred and fifty feet long, it had to run. . . whooo. High. She wasn't sure what she'd stepped into but it was gonna be strange. The man led her down a rather confusing maze to a door and then knocked, lightly. A voice inside said something in what sounded like Russian. Not Russian, but the word was similar, a simple: "Come." The room was huge, two levels and with a massive glass window that looked out over Nassau harbor. The view was mostly of white-caps but it was still pretty. A man was seated at a desk, his feet up, reading glasses perched on his nose, reading a document with a TS coversheet. If he cared that he was doing that in front of a plate glass window it wasn't apparent but it made Britney's skin crawl. The guy was medium height, pretty muscular build. He worked out. Brown hair. The face. . . was vaguely familiar. She could swear she'd met him somewhere. *** Mike gestured with his chin for Vil to leave and looked at the girl, taking off his much hated reading glasses. "Lt. Harder?" he asked. "Good to meet you. You can call me. . ." "Ghost. . ." the girl said, her face frozen. "Oh my God. . . GHOST?" "Jesus Christ," Mike snapped, his feet hitting the ground. "Lock it up, Lieutenant! Where in the fuck did you. . ." Mike froze himself, his eyes flying wide. " Bambi?"

"Oh My God," Bambi said, walking over to him. She came around the desk and touched his face. "Ghost. You're alive." "Yeah," Mike said, grinning ruefully. "I'm alive." "I see you spent the reward money well," Britney said, perching on the edge of the desk. "Oh, that wouldn't cover this baby for more than a few weeks," Mike said. "I've. . . Well that mission was sort of start-up capital. My God. Miss Liberal of the Month joined the Army?" "What's that line about a conservative is a liberal who's been raped?" Britney said, shrugging. "Yeah. I joined the Army. I wanted in Delta. I heard they had a few women. I was told it was invitation only and if I wanted in I needed to just work my butt off. People would hear. If I was good enough. . ." "Fuckers should have taken you in a walk," Mike said. "You've got balls the size of the Statue of Liberty. I never properly expressed that. Sorry. It was only you and Babe and Thumper that volunteered. Even Amy was drafted." "She's in the Corps," Britney said. "Amy that is. And you expressed it well enough. Towards the end." "Yeah," Mike said. "I sort of. . .caught up with a few of the girls. You know, after. But. . ." "They didn't talk," Britney said, nodding. "Good. OPSEC is important. I changed schools. Too many memories," she added, her eyes dark. "Memories," Mike said, frowning and looking at the wall where there was a painting covered with a cloth. "Yeah. I got those." "I bet," Britney said, touching his face again. "Ghost. Damn. I never. . ." "Keep the name down," Mike said. "My current name is Michael Jenkins. You can call me Kildar." ***

Chapter Five

"That's a hell of a story." Britney was sipping a glass of white wine after turning down the offer of a beer. Mike was working on a glass of tea. "And most of it pretty highly classified," Britney added. "Oh, hell, you know the big part," Mike said. "And I left a few details out." "Including what I'm doing here," Britney said. "What you're doing here." "You're here because my field second and my intel chief got shot up in an ambush aimed at me," Mike replied. "So I needed somebody familiar with the intel flow we're getting." "Why weren't you there?" Britney asked, frowning. "I'd have expected you to go right in charging." "I might have," Mike admitted. "But I had decided to. . .sit this one out." "Again, not what I'd expect," Britney said. "Not from Mr. 'No, you can't be Flower.'" "I'd forgotten that," Mike said, a nostalgic smile on his face. "Good times." "Says you," Britney said, shuddering. "I still have nightmares about being put on that table. Why?" "You don't give up, do you?" "And who taught me that?" "Long story." "You just told me a long story," the intel specialist said. "And clearly some of the details you left out were important." "Not anymore," Mike stated, flatly. "I'll introduce you to my intel chief, well assistant chief. She's female, speaks excellent English. I'll get you briefed in on the mission then you can get to work trying to find some nuggets." "And if I do?" Britney asked. "Then I get to do my job." *** Britney's new guide was a pretty, no beautiful, brunette, tall and leggy but with a nice bust. Also slightly pregnant. That was obvious because she was wearing tight blue shorts and a tight, sleeveless tshirt with a tiger logo on the back and "Mountain Tigers" on the front. Above the logo, just under the collar, was the name "Stella." In one of the corridors the two were confronted by a massive blonde guy dressed pretty much the same way. Handsome as hell. Hell everyone she'd seen was physical

perfection. This guy wasn't quite perfect in that he was missing one leg from above the knee down. He was wearing shorts so it was pretty obvious. He'd apparently been walking the corridor for exercise and stood to the side as the two came down the passageway. Britney could feel his eyes on her as they passed. The guy was a fucking mountain. It was nervous making. She wasn't sure if he was checking her out but she felt more like he was judging her. On what she wasn't sure. "Who was that?" she whispered when they'd turned the corner. "Oleg," the girl replied in accented English. "Team commander." "Still?" Britney asked. "With the leg?" "It is a very good prosthetic," the girl said. "German. It has some sort of spring in the knee. He says that it makes him run better than before. He intends to be in full form by the time we have a mission." "How'd he lose it?" "Last mission. It was very bad. A mortar landed near his position. His leg was. . . What is right English word? Mangled? Yes, I think mangled is right. Had to cut it off so he could keep fighting." "Keep fighting?" Britney asked, incredulous. "He was team commander," the girl said, pausing and looking at Britney quizzically. "He had to lead, yes? Could not lead with the pain of the leg. So Dmitri cut it off for him. They were in fighting positions, he didn't have to walk, run. Only fight and lead, yes? So. . .cut it off. Now he has new leg." "Go Oleg," Britney muttered. And she'd thought Delta was hardcore. No wonder Gho. . . Mike fit right in. The intel room was in the bowls of the ship and Britney could smell it had been freshly painted. From the look it was in copper shield paint. Expensive but nearly as good as a full Faraday cage for a shield room. The room was filled with computers and women. Like her guide, they were all very good looking and dressed in the same uniform. The effect was sort of overwhelming. Britney was used to being the prettiest girl in an intel shop. This was hell. "This is the new liaison," the girl said in English. One of the girls said something in that language. Britney got enough to catch "last longer." It was close enough to Russian. Maybe Georgian, Mike had said that he lived in Georgia and that these were his. . .retainers. Strange term to use for your troops. "I'm Greznya," one of the girls said, coming over and shaking her hand. "Welcome to Chaos Central." "It always is," Britney said. "I'm Stella, by the way," her guide said then said something to Greznya. Something about the Kildar, meaning Mike.

"Interesting," Greznya said, looking her up and down curiously. "She looks like a Kildar girl, yes?" "If you mean one of his former girlfriends," Britney said in Russian. "I'm not." "You knew him, though," Greznya said, still in Russian. "Before." "Yes," Harder replied. "And that is about all I can say on the subject." "Come, sit," Greznya said, showing her to a chair. "Would you care for some tea?" "An in-brief would be preferred," the lieutenant said. "Gh. . . The Kildar didn't even tell me what the mission is." "I won't ask what the other name was," Greznya said, politely. "But before I brief you in, I must tell you something." "I stepped through a looking glass and this is all a dream?" Britney said, taking a cup of tea from one of the girls. "No, Alice," Greznya replied. "It is something about the Kildar. He has recently lost someone. Someone important to him." "Is that why he was going to sit out this mission?" Britney asked. "Yes," the Keldara replied. "And then Adams, who has known him for many years, and Sergeant Vanner who, I think, is something like a son to him, they were both very injured. He feels much guilt for this. And for the other, too. You know the thing Nietzsche said about the abyss?" "Yes," Britney replied. She was having a hard time with disjunction. Yesterday she'd been perusing reports on Colombian drug smugglers. This afternoon she was sipping tea in an intel shop in the bowels of a multi-million dollar yacht and discussing Nietzsche. "The Kildar exists on the edge of the Abyss," Greznya said. "But for as long as he has looked at it, has dabbled at its edges and stuck his foot in, he has never entered the abyss. Or at least not that he could not swim out. Now he is in the abyss. He is being sucked down by it. He is drowning in it. If he becomes the abyss, well. . . We have had Kildars who ate their meals surrounded by dead bodies, for the pleasure of the company. We will, as you say, adapt and overcome. But I'm not sure the world will." "What does this have to do with me?" Britney asked. "If you can draw him back from the abyss," Greznya said. "That would be a very good thing. For us, yes, but for many other people. You remind him of. . .good times, I think." "I don't," Britney said, setting down her cup then reconsidering. That was exactly what Mike had said: "Good times." What kind of a crazy man considered holding off a battalion of commandoes and getting shot very near to death as "Good times." The sort that wouldn't stop until he tracked fifty girls down and freed them. The sort that had kicked her ass into overdrive when she thought she was about packed in. And she could tell what Greznya meant. The man upstairs had been more alive dying than he was now. She'd held his hand, then, dragged his heavy ass body to cover, listened to him whisper that damned song. "This is my

sacrifice. . ." he had muttered, almost joyous. Much more alive, then, with blood pouring out of him in scarlet rivers and still giving her instructions, his breath sucking in and out through holes in his lungs. "I'll see what I can do," Britney said. "But I only met him once and that at. . .a very bad time in my life. But I owe him. . .everything. I'll see what I can do." "Good," Greznya said, patting her thigh. "Good. And now, we will brief you in, yes? And you can try to help us with this idiotic database you Americans use." *** "God, not another harem girl." Britney looked up at the two women entering the salon and frowned. The two were dissimilar in looks except for being brunette. The shorter one was stocky, almost a power-lifter's look and had a gleam in her eye that spelled trouble with a capital T. The taller was more slender as well, not exactly willowy but lighter looking. She also had a milder expression. They were wearing flightsuits and carrying helmets. Ergo they were probably the pilots of the helo. "I'm not a harem girl. Whatever that means." "Dummy, that's the intel puke we picked up," the taller one said. "Sorry, term of art," she continued, walking over to Britney and holding out her hand. "Captain Tamara Wilson, late of the US Marines. Currently. . .well. . . They put the handle Valkyrie on me. I usually handle dust-off and supply." "Lt. Britney Harder," Britney said, standing up and closing the cover on the folder. "How much harder?" the shorter one said. "Captain Kacey Bathlick." "Do you?" Britney asked, smiling thinly. She'd put up with her last name all her life, after all. The jokes never made sense until she lost her virginity, but she'd heard them long before. "Point for point," Wilson said, grinning. "You turn up anything, yet?" "On what?" Britney asked. "Ah, I think we need to do some more briefing," Bathlick said, pulling out a water and sitting down across from her. "This is the way the Keldara manage information. They don't talk to anybody outside the team. Inside the team, there are zero secrets. So do they have a line on the VX, yet?" "No," Britney said. "Nada. Zip. Diddly. And since I'm a professional 'intel puke' I have to point out that while they may not talk, this room is not what I'd call secure. But thanks for asking. Now I've got a question." "Shoot," Wilson said, sitting down with a diet coke in her hand. "What's eating Mike?" "You're on first name basis already?" Bathlick asked. "I called him Kildar for a couple of weeks before I remembered he'd told me his name."

"We've met before," Britney said. "Where is. . .not an item of discussion. Even in a secure room. Ever." "Okay," Wilson said, nodding. "Interesting. But to answer your question. . . Jeeze, where to start." "The Rite," Kacey said, taking a gulp of water. "Which is one fucked up thing in my opinion. And I'm all for people screwing." "What right?" Britney asked. "A right to what?" "Rite, R-I-T-E as in religion," Wilson replied. "The Keldara have some really weird customs. . ." "Really weird," Bathlick interjected. "Really really weird. Like having parties on top of their graveyards. . ." "It's a very ancient and. . . unusual culture," Tamara said, shooting a glance at her friend. "Do you know what the right of droit de seigneur is?" "The. . ." Britney paused then her eyes widened. "Oh. Not really?" "Really," Tamara continued. "The Keldara, though, have sort of made it their own. The girls who are getting married get. . .presented to the Kildar, first. Keep in mind that they are getting married to his team members. He then gifts them with a dowry which, I understand, was the reason they first gave for it. Mike wasn't really thrilled with the idea. Okay, virgins, sure, great. But not the fiancées of his team members." "I got it," Britney said, unconvinced. "But he just couldn't help himself, right?" "The pressure all came from the Keldara," Bathlick said, flatly. "Tell her the rest." "For the Keldara it's a breeding program," Tamara continued. "The Kildars have always been warriors for centuries. If they weren't, apparently they were. . .taken care of. Quietly. So they've been breeding for warriors for generations." "And it's worked," Kacey said. "They're about as dangerous as the tiger that's their totem. More. I swear the kids are like little sharks." "But the point is that the Kildar gets first crack," Wilson said. "And. . . Have you met Stella yet?" "Yes?" Britney replied. "You might have noticed that she's a bit pregnant," Tamara said. "Her husband is the guy who guided you from the airport, Vil, one of the team leaders by the way. The child is the Kildar's." "They make sure they're right at ovulation when they put him to stud," Kacey said, cackling. "That's. . ." "Weird," Tamara said, nodding. "But that's the Keldara. And it's apparently worked. Even the women. . ."

"The women took on a Chechen force of about their own number during the last battle," Bathlick said. "They slaughtered them, the Chechens then being in prepared defenses. Keldara girls took five dead, about fifteen wounded. And just slaughtered the fedayeen. About a hundred. No quarter. Mostly chopped them up with axes. Then they got out shovels and filled in the trench. That's the women." "The men took on about forty times their number and did much the same thing," Tamara said. "But we were talking about the Rite of Cardane. That's what the Keldara call it. Anyway, sometimes things. . . go wrong." "Might have gone right," Kacey said, looking at her water. "Sometimes I wish this was beer." "The Kildar participated in the Rite with a young lady named. . . Gretchen Mahona," Tamara said, swallowing and closing her eyes for a moment. "She was our crewchief." "Didn't have a fucking clue how," Kacey added. "But God she was willing. And good. Damn she was good." She took a drink of water and tossed the bottle across the room, dropping the bottle in the trash for three points. "And unfortunately, the Kildar. . ." "Fell in love," Britney said, connecting the rather obvious dots. "And Gretchen. . ." "Got blown all over the inside the bird by a 12.7," Kacey said. "Nothing we could do. We were loaded to overweight with wounded and had to. . . Fuck." "We had to fly right through the fire," Tamara said. "Three bunkers, interlocked. We were moving about as fast as a person could run. Very high altitude, we were only making it on ground effect as it was. She was engaging the bunkers with the mini. . ." "And she got blown away," Kacey said, jerking to her feet and pulling out another bottle of water. "Literally. Made a hell of a mess." "The Kildar has not taken this loss well," Tamara said, delicately. "He went on a two month bender," Kacey said, bluntly. "Up until yesterday, no, two days before, he was nose deep in a bottle. I'm surprised he was able to recover so fast." "Mike's. . .got a thing for women," Britney said. "Oh really?" Kacey asked. "Do tell? He's only got a harem of teenaged girls and a harem manager that's one hell of a fox. I think we were luck of the draw, but. . ." "That. . .wasn't what I meant," Britney said. "I shouldn't have said that much. But. . . Yeah, I can see that hitting him pretty hard." "He's only here because of Adams and Vanner getting hit," Tamara continued. "And he feels guilty about that as well." "Might have a point," Kacey said. "I'm not sure that would have gotten him. He's got the touch. I've got it for flying but he's got it for. . .shit like this." "I've heard," Britney said. "We did a little catching up."

"You keep dropping these hints," Kacey said. "He wouldn't 'catch up' with just anybody. Catch up about what? As far as anybody in the Valley knows he just appeared fully formed! Give, girl!" "I can't," Britney said. "Let's just say that he saved my life and leave it at that, okay?" "So you gonna save his?" Kacey asked. "I'd be open to suggestions how," Britney admitted. "Screw him," Kacey said. "You think that will fix things?" Britney asked, blushing. "I mean, as you mentioned he has. . . Did you say a harem?" "Screw him and then get him to open up," Kacey said, ignoring the question. "He won't fucking talk about it! He's gone all macho on everybody. Big boy that doesn't need to talk. He's fine. He just needs a drink or two. Or a hundred. He needs to get it off his chest. He won't talk to Anastasia, he won't talk to the harem, which is what it's there for, he won't talk to even his oldest friends. Maybe he'll talk to you." "Methinks my overly testosteroned friend has a point," Tamara said. "I'll. . .consider it," Britney said. "Just that. I. . .don't have sex with anyone much these days." "Some issues there, too," Kacey said. "Bad boyfriend?" "Oh. . .worse than that," Britney said with a sigh. "And not something I can discuss. I have a counselor. I work with it. But it's. . . Heck most people I could probably talk about it. . ." "Hints and hints and hints," Kacey said. "Thank God I'm not an intel puke; it'd be an itch I couldn't scratch. Me, I don't give a fuck. If you can get the Kildar back in shape, more power. If you can't, at least find me a target." "I thought you were the driver," Britney said, smiling thinly. "The targets are for the guys with guns." "You haven't seen our other bird. By the way, my handle is Dragon." "No, I haven't," Britney said, distantly. "You did say 'harem', right? I'm sure you said harem. . ." *** Greznya was an intel puke. And she was a good one. She, too, had the "touch", that special feel for a situation. And hers was ringing bells about the new intel specialist. She had spent a long time with the Kildar but had not been briefed. She knew him from before. She had something for him, something like the Keldara did. She was bonded. But she had said she was not a former girlfriend and she had that look. Whatever had happened it had not been a romantic relationship. The yacht was rented but it was top-of-the-line and had massive satellite connectivity, including to the internet. The Keldara were tapped into every available database on earth and at the caravanserai Sergeant Vanner, All Father let him live, had built a gigantic server system capable of crunching data as fast as most supercomputers. They also had access to remote data systems, buying time on servers all over the world for anything their in-house system could not manage.

So she ran the name Britney Harder into the query and then on a hunch threw in possible connection words of "terrorism", "terrorist" and the various synonyms the Western press preferred such as "militant." The system was highly intuitive and used advanced algorithms similar to those used by Google to get likely hits. The response was almost instantaneous and came from, of all things, Lexis/Nexus, the database for the international press. Greznya found the girl's name then went back to the beginning of the article. Then she pulled up other articles about the same event. There were thousands of such; it had been a world-wide event even if the Keldara were unaware of it. But "most read" often did mean the best information and most of it was repetitive. She sorted for some publications she knew were capable of actual in-depth reporting and nodded to herself. Finally she was done and wiped the search. The search had been sent through two different intermediate routers so she was comfortable that it would not have been traced even if anyone was looking for them. A college student researching "recent events" would have done much the same as she. On the other hand she now knew that people were looking for them. At least, they were looking for the Kildar. And she knew that they had a true Kildar, warrior born, if it wasn't evident already. And that if anyone could bring him back, it would be the blonde lieutenant, a girl that would be considered moderately pretty among the Keldara even if she was a "ten" for most cultures. But how, exactly. . . ***

Chapter Six

"WOOO-HOO!" Katya hooted, taking a swig from the bottle of tequila. She wasn't the only girl on the yacht but she was, without question, the center of attention. Which had the other six girls somewhat pissed. And she was definitely the center of attention for the target. The gathering could not be called a party simply because it was more or less continuous. Juan Gonzalez was well-known as a center for partying, even in the fun-loving Bahamas. Wherever he went, his boat was filled with casual "company", most of the company young, good-looking females. But except for during spring-break – when things got wild enough to make any of the various "party" shows would it be possible to smuggle a video camera on-board – the girls were rarely so. . .exuberant. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Juan said, raising a glass towards the new girl. "I LOVE the Bahamas!" Katya shouted, taking another swig. Jay had given her a drug which counter-acted the effect of alcohol but she hardly needed it. She wasn't taking nearly as big slugs as it appeared for one thing. For another, she had a fairly high tolerance for alcohol. Despite that, she'd taken one of the pills, which were tucked in a special pouch under her left arm, before she came back on deck. There were more devices secreted around her body. Under her right armpit there had been four bugs, newest generation "brilliant" monitoring devices. The bugs recorded conversation, screening for background noise and non-conversational sounds, then, when their memory was full, dumped a short directional squeal towards a central receiver. One of the bugs, and the central recorder, Katya had placed in the bathroom. It was amazing what people, especially females, would talk about in the bathroom. And she'd wanted to get rid of the receiver as soon as possible. While it would normally require a body cavity search to find it, Juan might just be into backdoor. The bug, which looked like a small wad of chewing gum, went under the sink. There was enough detritus under there it was clear that it was rarely, if ever, cleaned. The receiver went inside the holding tank of the toilet. It looked fairly natural there even if anyone bothered to lift the lid. But she still had three more to plant, not to mention anything she could pick up. Getting the data out, though, that was another problem. She could leave the boat freely, small dinghies regularly ran back and forth to the nearby town, but she couldn't off-load any of the data loaded in her head as she was used to. However, Jay had given her a number of drop points if she had anything to report. "The old fashioned way" as he put it. Juan Gonzales was a known cocaine trafficker. Convicting him, ah, that was the rub. As was getting anyone to extradite him given that the few witnesses willing to testify against him had all ended up dead. And he had very advanced measures to prevent exactly what Katya was, in fact, doing. While Juan was fully immersed in the partying, the several "security" men in the area were carefully watching

most of the guests. Most. They had clearly been well-trained to ignore the girls. Otherwise one could be used as a distraction, right? The one guy that had Katya nervous was the security chief. Michael Ritter was an Australian, a medium-height blonde guy with a hearty laugh and long wavy hair. Pretty good looking if you ignored the broken nose that had been inadequately set. An Australian SAS veteran, he now did "international security contracting." He'd been hired by Gonzales after a serious attack that had nearly captured the drug trafficker while in transit in Colombia. It still wasn't clear if the attack had been by the Colombian government, American special forces or competitors. Gonzales had escaped but only barely. And his bodyguards had performed less than ably. He'd come to the conclusion that he needed a professional, versed in all the modern methods of security and countermeasures and Ritter was highly recommended. Despite being formerly on the side of Light in most people's eyes, he had worked in enough shady places it was clear he'd gone over to the Dark side. What the heck, with rare exceptions the money was much better. The rest of the security, though, were Colombians. They'd been spiffed up and given new shoes but they were still boys right out of the jungle. Big and probably capable in a firefight but they weren't expert watchers. Ritter had the eyes. He saw everything and he saw through many things. He was the one to convince. "So where are you from?" Gonzales said, waving for the girl to sit in his lap. "North Carolina," Katya said, dropping lightly into the lap and then giving a little wiggle. "I go to ASU, you know? And I just figured why hang around for winter quarter? There's hardly anything going on. So I caught a bus down to Miami and a guy gave me a ride over here on his boat. But it wasn't nothing like this! This is just fine." She was aware that the southern accent needed some work but she'd watched all the episodes of Dukes of Hazzard she could stand. "I'm glad you like it," Gonzales said, grinning. "I keep it just for ladies like you." "Well, thankee," Katya said. "But you know the one thing here that's wrong?" "What?" Gonzales said, furrowing his brow. "Simply ask and it shall be yours." "You're not having any fun!" Katya said, squeezing her tits together and pouring some of the tequila into the skin-lined cup. "Body shots!" Gonzales grinned and leaned forward, sucking the raw tequila out of the crevice. "WHOO-HOO!" Katya hooted, pouring in another shot. This was a lot better than getting beat up. *** Lilia frowned at the beeping. There were so many systems in the room and one of them was always beeping. But she couldn't figure out which one it was this time.

She spun back and forth in her station chair, looking for the source then, when it wasn't apparent, started hunting around the compartment. "What?" Greznya said. She was compiling a report on known smuggling methods. Most of them related to drug smuggling, but people quite often tried the same methods without realizing they were reinventing the wheel. "You hear that?" Lilia asked, turning her head from side to side. "No," Greznya said, looking around. But Lilia was a top voice analyst for a reason; she had phenomenal ears. Lilia finally tracked the sound to a case, one of the many they'd used to bring the gear over. It was third down in a stack. After she'd gotten to it she popped the latches and looked at the laptop sized device. A blue light was flashing on the edge and every few seconds it let out a "beep." "Low battery?" Lilia asked, lifting the box out of the foam cocoon. The fact that she'd been able to detect the beeping through the foam was testament to her hearing. "No," Greznya said, coming over and taking it from her. "You weren't on the Balkans op." "That's Katya's box," Julia said from across the room. "What the hell is it doing?" "I don't know," Greznya said, sliding a USB cable between the box and her computer. She brought up the communications software then punched in her security code. Immediately, the data screen started to scroll. "The reason it was beeping was that it's memory was getting full," Greznya said. "We dumped it after the last mission," Julia pointed out. "Yes, but it's been receiving for the last two days." *** "Katya's here?" Mike asked. "Yes, sir," Greznya replied. "She is currently a guest of a man with a boat not far from us. Close enough that we've been getting her take for the last two days. We didn't know that. Sorry." "Who?" Mike said, frowning. "Juan Gonzales," Greznya said, sliding over a folder. "Suspected cocaine smuggler. Known for all practical purposes, but nobody will arrest him due to lack of evidence." "Interesting," Mike said. "We've been worried about drug smugglers hooking up with Al Qaeda for a while," Britney said. "One of the reasons we've got the Narc Shop. But if he's actually working with them, well, that's a first."

"And one that we're going to discourage," Mike said. "Very directly. We know anything about his methods?" "Various," Greznya said. "Sometimes he'll send shipments in hidden in containers. Some has been caught, others. . . presumably not. He's used planes in the past. A current method involves fast boats. They come in from offshore and drop bundles off. They've been caught with the bundles but Coast Guard and DEA have never figured out how they make rendezvous. And they don't know where the cocaine comes from. The boats don't have the range to make it all the way from Colombia." "Lots of islands around," Mike said. "Famously. Lots of ways to transfer it, too. But transferring in closer. . . They probably rendezvous with boats off-shore." "Won't work," Britney said, walking across the office. "Greznya asked me to sit in on this one." "Lt. Harder has experience in this area," Greznya said. "I thought you were Army?" Mike said. "South American desk of SOCOM," Britney replied, sitting down and crossing her legs. "We do a lot of counter drug ops. I spend more time in the DEA database than Harmony." "So why won't rendezvousing offshore work?" Mike asked, leaning back. "You said you'd lived down here," Britney said. "You've seen those big balloons they have a couple of places in the keys and such?" "Yeah," Mike said. "They're radar balloons, I know that. But one boat. . . There are a lot of boats around here Britney." "Sure are," Britney said. "The daily take is over forty thousand tracks including all flights. But the tracks are all dumped to a supercomputer, continuously, that has pattern recognition software. If a boat that heads inshore to the US waters meets a boat that is from outside territorial waters or just coming out of Bimini or the Cut or whatever, that incoming boat is tagged. And the Coast Guard, nine times out of ten, does a 'safety inspection.' Boats running down the coast, outside territorial waters, have a lower tag rate. They could be going anywhere. Boats going out and coming in, lower still. Fishermen go out and come in every day, thousands and thousands of them. No way you can stop them all." "So what's going on?" Mike asked. "Any theories?" "Sure, lots," Britney said. "Some of Gonzales' boats have been stopped and found to contain illicit substances. Those are seized. There's some of his and a bunch more of other cartels' sitting in the Hollywood boat yard awaiting auction. Others were empty. They might have already gotten rid of their cargo, they might have just been testing the system. The Colombians do that, too. It's a real cat and mouse game. If you want the number one theory, they're dumping them, somewhere, and then other people pick them up." "Run a boat out," Mike said, musingly. "Do a dive. Hey, it's in the middle of no-where, but maybe the guy found a new reef to spear-fish. . ." "Exactly," Britney said.

"Hard as hell to figure out," Mike said. "Even with the radar and super computer. Boats have got to cross tracks all the damned time. If you're smart you drop a small buoy and the diver on the spot. The diver goes down, does his thing, comes back up, signals the boat. The current has already carried him away from the track. The boat comes back, picks him up, moves on. There's a bunch of problems, though." "They are?" Britney said, raising an eyebrow. "They're going to need to follow a general track," Mike said, still looking at the ceiling. "So they're going to have to have orders what track to follow. And they're going to need to know approximately where to drop on the track. Last, they're going to have to tell somebody where, exactly, they dropped. And that information is going to have to be passed to whoever is fishing the shit out of the water. That's bi-directional information flow. And you're not going to be able to do much of it via straight transfer. That is, if somebody picks up a phone and says 'The cookies are at x coordinates' eventually somebody is going to pick that up in an intercept. Then your shit gets fished up by a sheriff's dive team." "Congratulations," Britney said, chuckling. "You figured out what it took DEA about six months. They're looking for the information exchange method and trying to write an update for the coding but they're having a hard time." "Yes, I think I understand," Greznya said, her eyes distant. "Yes, that would be very hard coding. And you would have many many false positives." "Because boats turn like that all the time," Mike said. "You get a hit on the sonar. You see a school of tuna and go chase it. Your divers are doing a drift dive. Hell, you lose your damned hat! The weak point is the information transfer. There's some part of that that will tell us where the motherload is." He sat back and looked at the ceiling for a moment. "Any way we can get intel on suspect tracks?" Mike asked, picking up his tea without looking and taking a sip. "Especially ones coming in from north of the Bahamas?" "The data stream we're on has them all the time," Britney said, frowning. "Why?" "We need some equipment and I think it's training time," Mike said. "I'll consider the conundrum of Katya at another time. In the meantime. . . Greznya, get me. . . Vil and the pilots. Britney, want to take a trip to the Keys?" *** "New girl," Ritter said, sitting down next to the computer console. "Pretty," Suarez said. "But aren't they all?" Enrico Suarez was a graduate of the University of California, San Diego. He'd gotten a bachelors in computer programming then gone to Stanford for his masters. However, as much as he could have made in Silicon Valley, he knew he could make more working for the cartels. A few friends had gotten him introduced to other friends until he found someone who was willing to meet his, very high, price. The nice thing about working for the cartels was that they didn't care exactly how you got information, they just wanted to make sure they had it and nobody had theirs.

Suarez did various jobs for Gonzales, but one of them was "vetting" the various visitors that came on his boat. Frankly, it was easy. He keyed in the name Alicia Patterson and let the computer search. Quickly enough it came back with the information that Alicia Patterson was a sophomore at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. Her home address was listed in Highlands, North Carolina. She was listed as a former student at Highlands High School. Her grades at Highlands had been much better than those at ASU. She was not attending this quarter but was shown as permitted for qualified admission the next; she was right on the edge of academic suspension. There were four photos. One was a very old security photo from a company that maintained a database for parents who were afraid their children might be kidnapped. The second was from her driver's license. She had had three speeding tickets in the last year and was right on the edge of suspension for that, too. The third was from her ASU student identity card. The fourth was a very old and grainy photo of her in a local newspaper database. She was one of six winners of her elementary school spelling bee. "That her?" Suarez said, smirking. "That's her," Ritter said, nodding. "Her grades are taking a nose-dive," Suarez said. "Did she say how she got down here?" "Something about a bus," Ritter said. "I guess she boat-bunnied from there." "Bet she doesn't go back," Suarez said. "Fins and all that. Small town girl. Hits college, gets into partying. Takes off. . . Boat-bunny material par excellence." "Good," Ritter said, standing up. "I felt it was convenient her showing up right now." "She's for real," Suarez said. "No question. It all checks." *** "Ali's Bargain Palace!" Jay listened to the scratchy connection for a moment then nodded. "Yes, Hamid! I need the t-shirts very much! I must have by Tuesday! Yes. Good. In'shallah!" He turned back to the two tourists from Dubuque who were looking over the selection of cheap tshirts and even cheaper, if very overpriced, souvenirs. "All very good, mon!" Jay said in an Arabic imitation of an islands accent. "Very good. You look good in this one," he said, pulling down a shirt with a large shark surfacing and handing it to the very large woman. Katya was in, they'd checked her CV and apparently hadn't had any questions since the hacks had only gone to that point and then stopped. If they'd had any questions they would have searched deeper. Finding Robert's trojans in the NC DOT database, the ASU student database and the Highlands Courier would have been hard, but the search would have been obvious.

Robert was expensive but, like Jay, a patriot and very good. The NSA had been idiots to let him go over one little unauthorized hack. Especially since the take had proven him right. God damn the Clinton Administration. "Very good!" Ali Hamedi said as the couple walked away. The Midwesterners looked as if they didn't care much for Islamics. Good for them. Neither did "Ali Hamedi". *** "What is this place?" Britney asked as the white Lynx settled onto the helipad. "Islamorada Harbor," Mike said, nostalgically. Things had been. . .simpler once upon a time. The harbor was tucked inland about a quarter mile from the water, the only access a half-natural, half man-made cut. For Mike, it was one definition of home. "Thanks, Kacey," Mike said over the intercom. "You good on the way home?" "We'll have to tank again," Kacey replied. They'd had to stop in Bimini as it was. "And again on the way back. No externals on this bird. But we're good." Mike waved and climbed out of the helicopter, followed by Britney. The weather was still cool so they were both wearing windbreakers and jeans. Mike's had a snarling tiger face on the breast pocket and the name "Kildar" embroidered on the back over a much larger embroidered tiger. So somebody was after him. That was just fine by Mike. Next time let them shoot the right target. He made his way to the marina's offices, sniffing the air. It was a good day to go fishing; the recently passed cold front would bring the fish up a treat. And it was perfect sailfish conditions. Unfortunately, he just didn't have the fucking time. He opened up the door to the grimy interior and grinned. "Hey, Sol." "Mike!" the man said, standing up and coming around the corner. He shook Mike's hand then gave him a bear hug. "Man, where you been?" "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Mike said. "You disappear and then some DEA guys bring your boat back," Shalatin said, shaking his head. Sol Shalatin was a short-coupled, barrel-chested man, a former Navy bosun who had a part interest in the marina. The money was a guy in Michigan who'd made his fortune in bio-tech then settled back to enjoy it. Part of that was buying a marina, partially because they were pretty good money makers but more so that he had an in on the Florida boat and fishing trade. Sol ran the place, working his ass off most of the time but loving every minute of it. However, he'd worried about his friend, the former SEAL who had disappeared. "Christ, they actually used DEA?" Mike said, shaking his head. "Great."

"Oh, they didn't wear the jacket or anything," Sol said. "But after you've been down here for a while you know. They were dressed like gang-bangers, you know? But they were. . . too straight. And bangers wouldn't be returning your boat; they'd be selling it." "Captain Don's been running it, though?" Mike asked. "Yeah," Sol said, shrugging. "Keeps it in good shape." "Don's a good man," Mike said. "But I'm here about the Late." "Tied up on D-43," Sol said. "Don's used that for a few charters, too. I've made sure it's up. Just put in a new fuel injection system, bottom's recently painted. You got the bill." "I'm sure," Mike said, smiling. "I spend most of my time lately signing checks." "Hey, where were you for that nuke that went off?" Sol asked. "You remember, about a week or so after you left? And where'd those two chicks with you go?" "Uh, they caught a ride home," Mike said. "You know boat bunnies. And I was. . . Hell, Abacos I think. Yeah. Abacos. That day. I got the news a few days later in Nassau." "Okay," Sol said, nodding slowly. "Just asking. Cause, you know the newsies. They get everything wrong. There was one news report said that the FAST that was supposed to have been the ones that found it got there. . . too late. That it was actually a one man operation, a CIA agent. And the fucking terrorists were using cigarettes. Then, well, there's this cigarette turns up, two more DEA guys, by the way, say that it belongs to my old SEAL buddy. And guess what its name is? Too Late." "Coincidences are hell, aren't they?" Mike said. "But unfortunately, we've got a date to make." "We?" Sol asked, looking out the window. "Another hottie. You go, dude." "Britney," Mike said, walking outside. "This is Sol Shalatin. Great guy. Sol, Britney Harder." Shalatin didn't comment on the name he just nodded. "Army?" he asked. "I was," Britney said, shrugging. "Just got out. Shows, huh?" "Right, pull the other one," Shalatin said, shaking his head. "MP or intel?" "Intel," Britney said, frowning. "Sol's got an eye," Mike said, shrugging. "Sollie's got eyes, Sollie's got ears, Sollie ain't got a mouth," Shalatin said, smiling. "I think Sollie's even got a current TS, for that matter. Not that I give a shit down here. People want to run drugs, that's their business." "A lot of people die because of those drugs," Britney said, her face tight. "Not just cops and gangbangers and innocents on the streets, here, but innocents in Colombia and Venezuela and all over South America. And American troops I might add."

"Then legalize them," Sol said, shrugging. "We've got enough problems as it is. In case you've got your nose stuck too far into the drug trade. . . Ensign." "Army, Sol, Army," Mike chided. "Sorry. Lieutenant," Sol said. "I thought you didn't give a rat about drugs, either, Mike. Shame on you." "Inside," Mike said, gesturing with his chin. "Okay, Sol, what do you hear?" Mike said. "Because, you're right, I don't. War on Drugs is stupid. Prohibition proved that. But this isn't drugs. So. . . What do you hear?" Sol went behind the counter and picked up the stub of a stogie and lit is slowly. "What is it?" he asked when the foul thing was finally smoking up the room. "That's not for dissemination," Britney snapped. "Fuck you, LT," Sol said, looking at Mike. "Sol, first, Britney's not a meat," Mike said. "Yeah, she's an LT. A cherry LT. But I knew her. . . Way back, Sollie, way back. I covered her back, she covered mine. So treat her with respect. And the answer is more fucking WMD. What type is not for dissemination. And, yeah, the Andros job? That was a one man operation. Want to see the fucking spare assholes?" The scars from bullet marks make a puckered spot on the skin. They look very much like a small anus. "You sure about this?" Sol asked, through the cloud of smoke. "Very," Mike said. "We don't know how it's coming in. But we're very sure." "New boats," Sol said. "Up in Tavernier Creek. Two of them. Scarabs. The kicker is. . . Well, usually when you see Middle Eastern types with those, it's a Saudi prince or something. They've got a captain, in other words. What the fuck do most Ay-rabs know about fishing. These are a few guys staying at the Hampton Inn. Bought the boats from Hanson's up in Largo. Cash. They only go out at night. Say that they like sword-fishing. Never have much luck, though. Like. . . none." "What's a Scarab," Britney asked. "Sorry." "Big two or three engine fast fishing boat," Mike said, shaking his head. You don't use a Scarab for night sword-fishing. They're run and gun boats. They rock like a son-of-a-bitch, there's no amenities. . . If you've got that kind of money you get a yacht like mine. If you don't. . . Hell, you get an older one or a supply boat. Something with a stand-up head, a galley, bunks." "Tell me something I don't know," Sol said, setting down the stogie. "And that's all I've got. And you didn't hear it from me." "Never," Mike said. "But thanks. I guess I better go get the Late. See you 'round, Sol."

"You too," Sol said, pulling out a set of keys and handing them to Mike. "And keep your head down. You SEALs never learned the Navy rule about firefights." Britney followed Mike down through the docks until they got to the boat then shook her head. "How long has this just been sitting here?" she asked. The Too Late was a recent model Cigarette. Although "Cigarette" had become so generic that, like Kleenex, it was used as a general term, it was also a brand. And in the case of the Too Late it was actually a Cigarette as opposed to one of the company's many competitors. At only thirty-two feet long it was smaller than some of the newer speed boats but it was still a monster. Painted black and silver, it looked as if it was straining away from the dock, ready to run. Most high-performance vehicles had their origins in smuggling: NASCAR was derived from bootleggers and WWII PT boats were built by a company that had supplied booze smugglers during Prohibition. Cigarette boats were no exception. In the late 1940s the taxes on cigarettes, the things people smoked, were so extreme in Europe that it made it economically feasible to smuggle them. Fast boats crossed the Mediterranean from Algeria and Malta, dropping cigarette loads mostly on the Italian and French coast. Later, similar boats were used for the increasingly popular sport of off-shore racing. But their origins remained in a moderate sized cabin forward. Originally designed for small, valuable cargo, in most modern boats it had been converted into underway quarters ranging from spartant to, in the case of Fountain high speed boats, almost ridiculously luxurious. "It hasn't just been sitting," Mike said, stepping off the dock onto the gunnel then taking off his shoes. "A friend charters it sometimes. Shoes off when you board." "Why?" Britney asked, but she took her running shoes off, holding them in her hands as she boarded. "They track up the deck," Mike said, pointing to the spotless white interior. "Don Jackson's a captain down here. Used to be in the tobacco trade, still dabbles in it. He's got two or three boats himself but he also knows all the local captains. A lot of good guys don't have the money for a boat. So he sort of brokers a group of them with guys who don't use their boats all the time. Like, for example, me. He manages the upkeep, sets up charters and banks the money. Some of it goes to keeping up the boat. I think I'm actually in the hole on the deal, but you'd have to ask my accountant. Hell, I could be making money." Mike got the lines untied, the door to the front cabin unlocked and started the cigarette, backing it out of the slot and turning to make his way out of the maze of the harbor. His previous slots, C-19 and C-20, had been right by the turning pool that led to the cut. D-43 was way back. He had lost some of his skills but he kept the first rule of close-approach navigation in mind; there is no such thing as too slow. Once out in the turning pool he started turning on electronics. There was no other traffic to worry about so he could handle the distraction. There was quite a bit of it. Don had upgraded the GPS and autopilot with a new, fully integrated system that put all the sensors, GPS, radar, three-d depthfinder, even satellite weather on a single display. The old one had been pretty good so Mike was looking forward to trying out this one.

Three-D depthfinder, trim tabs, oil and fuel pressure, Mike ran through the whole checklist. He had to stop to make the turns out of the cut and watch for other traffic. There were far too many assholes in the Keys with boats bigger than either their dicks or brains. He'd nearly been run down several times by cigs similar to his going like a bat out of hell down narrow cuts, barely making the turns and swinging wide as they did. Bigger boats than dicks or brains. He was trying to figure out the new GPS, which was cool as shit but also complicated as a motherfucker, when he cleared the cut. He kept the speed down until he hit the edge of the no-wake zone then cranked it up a tad, getting up on plane and swinging into the channel that led out past the reef. "This is nice," Britney yelled, shucking her windbreaker. The shout was more necessary for the engine noise than the wind; this version of Cigarette's line had a large windscreen and a nice profile that spread that away from the front seats. In fact, it was a tad warm even with the slight chill; with no wind the area was heating up from the bright sun. Mike pulled his off and opened up a dry box. "In there," Mike said. "We might need them later." Once they cleared the first reef Mike punched coordinates to the autonav and dug deeper into the GPS. The two systems were connected but as long as he didn't give commands he was fine checking it out. Finally, he found some of Don's waypoints and tracks. He picked out a better one for crossing the outer reef and then found some for the Bahamas. Don had been taking his little baby far. But, hell, the Bahamas were better fishing and less than an hour away in the cig. "Can this thing go all the way back to Nassau?" Britney asked. "On one tank," Mike said. "It's got extended range tanks. We may tank along the way, just to be safe." He thought about that and shook his head. "Big fast boats have more range than this one, but they're gonna have to tank somewhere. I mean, if they're running down from north of the Bahamas to here, dropping something then. . . I doubt they're going to run right back. Too obvious. They'll swing around, maybe through the Cut. They've got to tank and they've got to drop off their waypoints. They've got to pick up their next track, probably, as well." "So. . .where?" Britney asked. "And should we be talking about this?" "Well, the boat hasn't been swept," Mike said. "And my name is affiliated with it." He paused. "Hell, there could be a bomb on board for all I know." "That's a great thing to say right now!" Britney snapped. "Unlikely," Mike added. "Sol's pretty good in case you hadn't noticed. But, yeah, we should be able to talk fine. There's no way to remote listen on one of these things short of a bug; too much secondaries. Not the engine and stuff; that can be screened out. But the wind going by? That makes it impossible. Anyway, they've got to tank." Mike pulled up the GPS map, which was on a screen the size of a medium lap-top, and pulled up an overview of the Bahamas.

"You've got the north Bahamas up here," Mike said, pointing. "Grand Island. That's where Freeport is. Then you've got this big area of open water, the Providence Channel. But here's the kicker." "Most of the stuff comes in through the Keys," Britney said, nodding. "Which is south of Providence Channel." "Right," Mike said, zooming in. "So, we're making one hell of a lot of assumptions, but. . . They have to run south of Bimini. If they're picking up north of the Grands and Abacos, they're going to have to use the Cut. It's the only way across the Banks. Really fucking narrow at the entrance, but easy enough for a speed boat. But. . ." "Where do they tank?" Britney said. "I've been over this before." "DEA?" Mike asked. "Yep," Britney said. "They asked the same questions. Took a month, but they asked them. I figure some of the agents were going as fast as you, but the stuff only gets distributed once somebody high enough is willing to put it out. Otherwise, if it turns out to be stupid, they get egg on their face." "I can give a shit about egg," Mike said, pointing to the Cut. "What's their answer?" "Different situation," Britney said. "The boats are going the opposite direction. They're coming up from the south, they're not sure where they're getting the drugs as I said, then swinging into Providence and tanking in Nassau or one of the harbors in the Andros area. Then south again. They get in the islands and disappear as a hard track. Then they appear again. DEA is sniffing around for their drop points. They figure that the drugs and the waypoints never cross paths, too." "Yeah," Mike said. "The tracks might, but not the waypoints." They crossed over the outer reef and the waves started to chop up, the big rollers from offshore peaking into near breakers as they crossed the reef. Mike gestured at Britney's seatbelt pointedly. "You're going to want to put that on," he said, reaching down and sliding the four-point restraint on. It was much like a military helicopter's straps so Britney had no problems. Then he kicked it. The boat rose nose up for a moment then settled back down, hit the first wave and went momentarily airborne, the engine screaming. Mike didn't bother to throttle down, though, since when it hit it stayed mostly down, jumping from wave-crest to wave-crest in a continuous series, the props rarely leaving the water. "Where were we?" he yelled over the engine noise. "Tracks and waypoints," Britney yelled back. Mike keyed in the opening to the Bahamas Banks Cut and leaned back in his seat. The motion was much like the FAST boats he'd ridden in as a SEAL but the seats were much more comfortable. And he wasn't wearing a hundred pounds of gear. The day was clear and the sun was warm. He'd made sure they both put on sunblock before they even boarded the helo so they were good. He checked the estimated time. Fifty three minutes to the next waypoint. Not too shabby.

"They're going to need another tank point," Mike said, bringing up the measuring system. He created an imaginary track, running a notional boat through the Cut then having them refuel at Crossing Rocks. He ran them back around the Grand Islands then down the Florida Straits and shook his head. "They have a bunch of range, but not that much." "So where?" Britney asked. Mike fiddled with the system, checking ranges from various fuel points. "Nothing," Mike said. "Unless they're tanking at Bimini just before their speed run." "No way in hell," Britney said. "Bimini's DEA central. One boat and crew, once, maybe. Over and over? It's a small harbor. And they'd have the materials already onboard. All it takes is the most cursory customs check." "Yeah," Mike said, nodding. "That's the kicker. Once they've picked up or are even near their pickup, they're not going to hit land to tank. Unrep." "Okay, that one's got me," Britney admitted. "What is. . .' "Underway replenishment," Mike said. "They're tanking from somebody at sea. Probably a bigger ship to the north of the Grands. That's if we're not totally off base." "But you don't think we are," Britney said. "No, I don't," Mike replied. "And I don't think they're tanking in the Abacos. Or picking up their tracks, either." "Where then?" Britney said. "Nassau," Mike replied. "It's not that far out of their way. There's range for them to stop there then make a speed run up to the tanker up north. From there they go to pick up the materials. Then they do another speed run down south, drop the materials, come back through the Cut and head back down to Nassau." "Why Nassau?" "Katya's there," Mike said. "And if she's there, Jay's not far away." "Who's Jay?" "Who knows?" Mike said, grinning. "He's a freelance humint guy I hired. A spy in other words. Former CIA, got riffed during the Clinton Administration. Very good. He's been training Katya. If he's sniffing around Gonzales, he has a reason. And Nassau's big. Off-shore speed boats come and go all the time. There are lots of ways to do a drop there that would just disappear in the noise. You can't say the same about the Abacos; those towns are all tiny. They could be picking them up at a rendezvous at sea but even then. No, Nassau makes too much sense. Maybe too much sense but that's what my gut is telling me." "Is that why you chose it?" Britney asked.

"No," Mike admitted. "I chose it because it was central in the Bahamas and there was a really fucking big yacht for rent. I needed a really fucking big yacht." "Why?" Britney asked, chuckling. "Because I've got nearly two hundred people packed in it below decks," Mike said. "Getting them all there, quietly, was hell. They flew in through Miami then out to every damned airport in the Bahamas. Most of them came in through Nassau but others came in through everywhere from Andros to Freeport. Then we went out where we were reasonably out of sight and the Lynx went out to pick them up. That, by the way, was while I was getting established. Getting their gear in place is even harder. Most of it isn't here, yet." "That was a big movement," Britney said, her eyes wide. "Yep," Mike said. "And we did it in less than twenty hours from the go word. I've got good people." "Like Gretchen?" Britney asked. Mike hit the throttle and dropped the boat to a sudden stop, water splashing up over the bow as it slammed into a wave. "Who the fuck told you about Gretchen?" Mike snarled. "Friends of yours," Britney said. "People who care about you." "If they care about me, they need to get their God damned nose out of my private business," Mike snapped. "Jesus, I'm sick of this. I live under a fucking microscope." "For living under a microscope, you don't talk about things much," Britney said. "Not important things." "I talk about important things all the time," Mike replied, starting the boat back up. But he kept the speed down to idle. "Stopping a shipment of VX is very God damned important." "Yeah, but not about things that hurt you," Britney said. "Big boys don't cry, do they?" "You'd be surprised," Mike said, his jaw flexing. "And who the hell am I going to talk to about it? Anastasia? Adams? Nielson? One of the damned harem girls?" "The commander can't show his weakness," Britney said, nodding. "But from what I heard, he showed his ass instead." "Yes, he did," Mike admitted. "But he's over it, thank you." "Bullshit," Britney snapped. "I'm not 'over' Syria. I live with it every damned night. It's not as bad as it was, but it's still pretty damned bad. Not the bodies, not scavenging the ammo, not turning the fuckers over to pull the grenades off their belts. No, I just sit in that damned chair and one of them comes over, key in hand. I'm next." "I can believe it," Mike said, looking over at her.

"I've had hours and hours of counseling," Britney said, undoing the straps and turning on the seat. "I took your advice. Now take mine. Talk. Now. Here. Talk to me, Bambi. Start at the beginning. Go to the end. Don't leave anything out." Mike undid his own straps and went below. The ice machine was working and the small bar was, per his orders, stocked. He pulled out an untouched bottle of Elijah Craig, filled two glasses with ice and went back up on deck. "Here," he said, pouring two drinks and handing Britney one. "I'm not a straight whiskey drinker," Britney said. "I quit drinking alone three days ago," Mike said, raising his glass. "Salut." "Blood in your eye," Britney said, sipping the whiskey. "This is good. Smooth." "Yes, it is," Mike said, taking a large gulp. "I've got twenty three empty bottles to prove how smooth." He looked at the glass then sighed. "Gretchen." It took a while, about half the bottle. "I wasn't there," Mike finished. He'd refilled his glass with ice twice and now the second load was about gone. "I didn't see it. I couldn't do anything about it. But I had to look under the God damned sheet. I had to see her one more time. She'd been cut in fucking half. Her spine was sticking out. Ribs. I remember thinking 'that's a spleen, right?'" He closed his eyes, his jaw working, and shook his head. "She was just a Cardane girl," Mike said, grimacing, his eyes tight. "Just another duty of the fucking Kildar. Be a good stud. Do the mares and go on." He lowered his head and his body shook. "And then she was just fucking gone. I'm never going to see her again!" Britney took the man in her arms and laid his head on her breast, stroking the back of his head as he cried. "I mean she was going to marry Kiril," Mike said, sobbing. "I knew I couldn't have her. She wasn't mine. She never would be. But she'd be around, you know? I'd see her. And then Kiril gets wasted. It was all my fault! All of it. . ." "Shhhh," Britney said. "You couldn't have done anything. . ." "Bullshit," Mike said, sitting up and turning away. "I was the fucking commander. I'm the God damned Kildar! It is, de facto, my responsibility. And, what's worse, I knew the mission was fucked from the word go. I knew we were screwed. We had so many stupid fucking conditions put on us there was no way we were just going to ghost out. I should have thrown a shit fit when the Georgians refused us helo support. Let Markov take the fucking casualties! They're fucking mercenaries, that's what they're there for! And then the fucking Russians! Oh, did you hear about that BASTARD, Chechnik?" "No," Britney said to the clearly enraged former SEAL. "They knew," Mike said, snarling. "I can't prove it but they had to fucking know. If it had just been Bukara, well, that would have been one thing. We could have smoked him then smoked the defenses in the pass, somehow. Do what the girls did and bring up the mortars. Something. But Sadim? He was

their fucking varsity! Nielson told the Russians we were picking up signals that looked like a moving unit. The Russians are masters of humint. There was no fucking way that they couldn't know Sadim was moving! That he was moving into the sector where the op was going down. Nielson and the girls had the intel way in advance, but they didn't know who was moving. They didn't know it was a fucking brigade. They didn't know it was Sadim! That was what fucked us. If I ever see Chechnik again, the motherfucker, I'm going to sit him on a short stake and eat my lunch in front of him! And fucking Vladimir had better watch out, too." "I don't get it," Britney said, blanching at the very direct threat to the President of Russia. "Why didn't they tell you?" "Because then I'd have aborted the op," Mike said, his face hard. "We had ghosted into deepest darkest Injun country. The intel was building when we were still in movement, we hadn't launched the op. We could've aborted and ghosted out. But that meant somebody else would have had to stop the. . .package. And we had a deal. I did the mission, I didn't tell the US what the package was. If ANV or Delta did an op in, say, Azerbaijan, then the US would know what the deal was. They'd know what the Russians had really lost. They wanted me to stop the transfer even if it meant hanging us out to dry. Maybe especially if it meant I got smoked. Dead men tell no tales. The motherfuckers." "What was the package?" Britney asked. "Shit, that's well above my clearance. . . Forget I asked." "It's okay," Mike said, taking another sip. "I'm not going to tell you anyway. Funny. They go and royally butt-fuck us and I'm still holding up my end of the fucking deal. Go figure." "You're a good man," Britney said. "And I think I really don't want to know." "I'm a very bad man," Mike said. "I will tell you this, though. Feel free to pass it on to anyone you can who has National Security Counsel clearance. Please fucking feel free to pass it on. The Russians told the US it was nukes. Three of them. That was what I was getting paid to recover. Three nukes." "That's serious enough," Britney said, her eyes wide. "Nothing compared to the real package," Mike said, his jaw working. "The real package was Armageddon on a fucking platter. But here's the kicker. I told the fucking Russians if I was going to keep their secret I wanted the deal sweetened. Four nukes. Five mil apiece was the vig. Twenty if I recovered all three. Hell, I turn up with four, that's another five, minimum, right? Enough to keep my mouth shut." "Yes," Britney said, shaking her head. "That must have been an interesting negotiation." "If I'd known they were going to fuck me as hard as they did, I'd have either told them to piss up a rope or told them ten," Mike said. "Then I'd have sent them back, VPP. But here's the real kicker. Guess how many I gave the US?" "Huh?" Britney said then her eyes widened. "Oh. . .shit." "Three," Mike confirmed. "Hey, that was all they were expecting." "You have a nuclear weapon in your possession?" Britney said, carefully.

"Yep," Mike said. "About ten kilotons. In the basement of my castle. Partially disassembled I might add, thanks to the WMD expert I picked up on the same op. Something about retaining the quality of the tritium. But it can be assembled in about three minutes. And one of these days, oh let that day be soon, I'm going to take it and shove it up Vladimir's ass then blow the son-of-a-bitch." "I so didn't want to know any of this," Britney said, shaking her head. "I'm not even sure who I can tell." "I can put you on the phone to the president if you'd like," Mike said, putting the boat back up on plane. "And you'd be surprised the shit you don't want to know about that's in the basement of my castle. Belts." "We were talking about Gretchen," Britney said, strapping in. "Yeah, we were," Mike said, powering up. "And now we're not. Thanks, though. I appreciate it." "We're not done," Britney said as the boat started hopping waves again. "No, we're not," Mike admitted. "And, yeah, we'll talk again. But it was a good start." He tossed the remains of his drink over the side and looked over at her. "Think you can survive making it down to the cabin and getting me a Coke?" "Can I ask you one thing, first," Britney said, undoing the straps while bracing herself. "What?" "What is the Navy's first rule about a fire fight?" "Send the Marines." ***

Chapter Seven

"Who now?" Jason O'Connor asked. "The Marines?" O'Connor was the desk manager of the Hollywood Florida Central Governmental Surplus Repository. Run by the Marshall's Service, it was the place where everything the United States government seized in its ongoing war on drugs was dumped for eventual resale. Stuff seized by the IRS, despite the "Central Government" part, was sold through another agency. The law under which the government seized most materials was incredibly archaic, going back to the middle ages. Effectively, the condition of forfeiture meant that when a crime was committed involving a device, vehicle or even home, that device, vehicle or home was considered an accomplice in the crime. And being an inanimate object, it had none of the "rights" of an individual. It was assumed to be guilty. Thus when a person was pulled over and drugs were found in his car, the person would be arraigned, have hearings and in some cases eventually be tried if there was sufficient evidence and if the DA was feeling lucky. The poor car had no such rights. Oh, if the owner contested it was given a trial, but no peers! And if the owner didn't contest, usually because they were guilty as hell, the poor thing was sent directly to the Hollywood Florida Central Governmental Surplus Repository where it languished behind chain-link fence and barbed wire until some individual bought it at auction and freed it from durance vile. Quite often that person was a friend or relation of the original drug-dealer who then transferred the title back. This was especially common with boats, some of which had been "incarcerated" four or five times for the exact same offense, the definition of recidivist. Alas, there was no three strikes law for boats. Jason was having a bad day. Apparently, every government service in the nation was descending on South Florida for reasons he didn't know and, frankly, could care less about. And they all wanted vehicles. Since the HCGSR had lots of vehicles, of every shape model and description, and since the US government already owned them, it was a natural source. Cars had been rolling off the lot all day. Not only did every one mean more paperwork, he knew were going to be returned in poor to awful condition. Virtually unsellable. Cops never took care of their cars. Fibbies were the worst. No, DEA was the worst; what DEA did to a car shouldn't happen to a junkyard dog. But this guy wasn't BU or DEA. No suit in the first case, no jeans and dreadlocks in the latter. He might be BATF. Some of the BATF guys had that military look. And those cars. . . Jesus. "What?" Jason snapped. "You have five off-shore power boats," the man said in strongly accented English. He handed over a distribution form. "The Kildar wishes them." "And what the fuck is a Kildar?" Jason asked, sitting on his stool and looking at the form. All the blanks were filled in but none of them made sense. He'd never seen the authorization code and the security code was. . . He turned to his computer and made his way through the menus, hunting up the code list. The authorization code was through SOCOM, which he'd sort of guessed. He'd seen one like

it before. But the security code. . . The issuing office was listed as "Need-To-Know." Fucking black ops. It was a valid code but it just pissed him off. The five boats were the best thing he had in the yard. They were going up for auction, one at a time, over the next month and were going to mean real money to the US government. Money that was going to buy new gear for cops for one thing. The fuck if he was just going to let them disappear into a black ops hole. Fuck them. He had authority to deny requisitions and he was God damned well going to use it. And the guy was just too fucking pretty. He looked like a fucking movie star. That was what really tipped the scales. It just pissed the overworked, in his opinion, desk manager off. "No," Jason said, handing back the form. "This is the proper paperwork, yes?" the man asked, blinking. "That is the proper paperwork," Jason replied. "But I've got authority to deny those. So. . . No. Goodbye." *** Vil considered the little man for a moment. He was puzzled. He was fully aware that most people outside of Georgia did not know who the Kildar was. That, in fact, the Kildar would prefer to keep it that way. But he also knew, because the Kildar had told him, that the authorization was at a very high level. He should, by rights, have been terribly obsequious, perhaps not even asking for a bribe. The Kildar had told him the man would not ask for a bribe and that Vil should not offer, that that would cause problems. But there were problems. "I would like to make a call," Vil said, pulling out a cell phone. "Fine," Jason said. "Call whoever you'd like. The answer is still no." *** The guy was still looking confused. He had a weird accent, maybe German or something. Maybe he would have understood "Nyet" or "Non" or whatever. Let him call whoever he wanted. SOCOM might think it was hot shit but it pulled no weight with the US Marshal's Service! *** "Pierson." "Colonel Pierson, this is Vil Mahona. I am one of the Kildar's. . ." The guy was talking Russian so Pierson responded in the same language. "Team leaders," Pierson said. "You're on an open line, Vil." "Yes, sir. I apologize for that. Sir, I am having a difficulty. I have been tasked to obtain five vessels for the Kildar's use from a facility in the town of Hollywood, Florida. You are familiar with this facility, yes?"

"I am familiar, no," Pierson said, smiling. "But I can figure it out. Go on." "The desk manager has refused my request," Vil said. "The Kildar has assured me that I have proper paperwork and the man even admitted that to me. But he still refuses. I am wondering if I should offer him bribe?" "No," Pierson said, definitely. "Don't. Don't ever offer an American official, police or soldier a bribe. That's like. . . That's like saying a Keldara is a coward. Let me speak to him." *** Now the guy was babbling in a foreign language. What the fuck were foreigners doing asking for his boats? The guy finally stopped and held out his phone. "This is colonel," the man said. "He is wishing to speak to you." "I've got a billion other things to be doing," O'Connor said, but he took the phone. "What?" "It's customary to state your name when you answer a phone," whoever was on the line snapped. "I just want to get this straight. You were presented with a requisition. Was all the information you normally require present?" "Yeah," O'Connor said. "But I don't know who this fucker is, I don't know who you are and I've got authority to deny and I'm invoking it. So you can go revolve on your little stool as far as I care, colonel." "You're Marshal's Service, right?" "Yeah. We're not fucking Army, we're not fucking Marines, and we're not your God damned boat dealer." "Just checking," the man said. "Give the phone back." *** "Vil," Pierson said. "Where are you?" "The Hollywood Florida Central Governmental Surplus Repository," Vil said, reading it off the form. "Just as a matter of interest, what are the authorization code and security code on the form?" Vil read them off and got a read back. "The security level on that is Ultra Blue?" Pierson said. "For real?" "Yes, sir," Vil replied. "And he kicked it back?" Pierson snapped. "Is he fucking insane?"

"You come to my understanding of the situation," Vil said, sighing in relief. "I feared it was me or that I did not understand." "Oh, I so have some calls to make." *** "You still here?" Jason asked. "I am, sir," Vil said, closing the phone. "I shall be for a time, yes." "Then wait outside," O'Connor said, gesturing with his chin. "I've got paperwork to do." "Yes, I will," Vil said, picking up the form. *** "We are getting the boats?" Sergejus Shaynav asked. "There is a problem," Vil said. "I have presented it to Colonel Pierson. If it is not to be resolved, he will call us back." "I have never driven a boat," Viatcheslav Devlich said, nervously. "I can barely swim." "We are the Keldara," Vil said. "McKenzie has told me the words to the Song of Remembrance talk of the days when we were feared warriors in boats. The Vikings, yes? We'll figure it out. How hard can it be?" "How long do we wait?" Viatcheslav asked. "Until dark," Vil said. "Then we call the Kildar for further instructions." *** However, it was barely thirty minutes until a government sedan pulled into the yard and a tall man wearing a Marshal's Service windbreaker got out. Unlike the man in the office, the newcomer was wearing a gun and badge on his belt although he was in civilian clothes. "Which one's Vil?" the man asked, walking up to the group. "I am," Vil replied. "Gimme a minute," the man said with a sigh. *** Jason sat up and tried to look busy as the regional supervisor walked in the room. "Sir, it's good to see you!" "No it's not," the RS said. "Pack up your personal stuff and go home. You're on unpaid administrative leave pending termination."

"What?" Jason said, his face going gray. He felt like he was going to faint. He was going to faint. "You are too fucking stupid for words, do you know that?" the RS said, angrily. "Did you look up that guy's security classification? I won't even get into the authorization." "Yes, sir," O'Connor said, suddenly realizing how truly he had screwed up. "But it was listed as Need-To-Know." "Well keep in mind that if you whisper this in your next job, you've got a one way ticket to Marion, Illinois," the RS said, angrily. "But an Ultra Blue security classification can only be issued by the National Security Council. And since you're too stupid to probably know what that is, let me make it clear. They were authorized to draw on your equipment by either the President, the Vice President, the National Security Advisor or the Secretary of Defense. The good news is that it only got up to the level of the Commandant who called me. So the President has not heard about our little fuckup. But I've now got to explain to the Commandant why I had a shit for brains like you working this desk." *** "All Father," Vil whispered, looking at the boats. Each of them was different. Two had two hulls, the others just one. But all were in a series of wild colors and just looked fast. He suddenly knew how Captain Bathlick must feel when she looked at the Dragon. But the captain, he reminded himself, was a highly trained professional. He had no clue how to even start one of these. "We got one Fountain, a Nordic, a Cigarette, a Drone and a Hustler," the regional supervisor said. He didn't know who these guys were, but they had White House clearance so he was going to handle them with kid gloves. "You've driven one before, right?" "No," Vil said, shaking his head. "But we are to pick up instructors on the way. We must get them from here to there, though." " Ever driven a boat before?" the RS asked, cautiously. "Never," Vil replied. "I grow up in mountains." "O-kay," the RS said. "In that case, take it slow. There's no such thing as too slow. They're all gassed, but I can't guarantee performance. We sell these things as is. They all worked when we they got here and none of them have been tied up long." "We will be careful," Vil said. "I can assure that." The RS gave each of the two man teams a short class in how to handle the boats then helped them untie and get pulled out. Two of them collided, briefly and lightly, getting pulled out. Then he made sure the gate was open as the line of boats slowly motored out towards the intercoastal waterway. He wasn't sure where they were going but he hoped that nobody got in their way. ***

"We will go very slow," Vil said. He'd donned the standard team headset as had the other drivers. "Very very slow." "Where are we going?" Clarn Ferani asked. "A bar," Vil said. *** Randy Holterman sat at the Caribbean Sports Bar and Grill and considered whether he was making one fucking huge mistake. The former PO had been a FAST boat driver with the Norfolk Underwater Support Group up until about a year before. The reality was that while FAST was the shit, the guys they were supposed to support, SEALs and very rarely Delta, hardly ever used them anymore. Most of the ops that Norfolk supported were in Europe and Africa. And nobody had used a FAST in operations in a couple of years. So when his reenlistment date came up he got out and turned his car south for Florida. His rep as a former FAST driver had gotten him a gig as a mate on a dive boat which gave him time to get his civilian captain's license. The combination had him doing gigs as a part time captain, filling in for guys who had been around for a while. He'd figured out the deal, you worked your way up in the local community, you learned the fishing waters and eventually made enough to get a boat. Maybe you got picked up by some guy with money who had the sense to know he needed a captain. You networked. You built customers. In the meantime, you got a lot of water time which was the name of the game. Randy was an easy-going guy and he got along with the customers so he was doing well there. But he was a long way from his own boat. Not a good one. He wanted either a good solid yacht or a fast fisher. And that was serious money. You had to show you had a business before you could get the financing on one. Randy figured five years. Then he got a call. "Captain Randy, the fish are here, where are you?" "Randall Holterman?" the woman had asked. Foreign accent, Slavic probably. "That's me," he said, trying to figure out which payment he was behind on. "Mr. Holterman, my employer would like to retain your services for up to two weeks. Are you available?" "I don't know," Randy said, thinking about his schedule. He had lots of things going on over the next two weeks; you stayed busy or you got poor quick. But nothing he couldn't slide to somebody else if the money was right. "That would depend upon the nature of the job and the price. If he wants to go fishing for a couple of weeks. . ." "That is not the nature of the job," the woman had said. "He has some employees who need training in handling small boats. Fast boats."

Randy's alarm bells started ringing hard at that. There was only one group in south Florida that had multiple fast boats and people that needed to learn how to use them. Racing teams, well, they didn't need trainers. And nobody had multiple boats and needed a trainer except druggies. Randy didn't really give a shit about the running, but he also didn't want to end up with a Colombian neck-tie, also known as having your throat cut and your tongue dragged out of the hole to hang down in front. "Not interested," he said. "I suspect you think we are drug runners," the girl had said. "Very far from the case, Petty Officer. We obtained your name from your service record, not from 'the street' as you would say. The vig, as my employer would put it, is twenty thousand dollars. It can be in cash if you so desire. Oh, and at the completion of our stay here, one of the boats is yours." "What kind of boats?" Randy asked. "I do not know," the girl said. "I am only told they are very fast 'cigarette' type boats." "Jesus," Randy said. Anything along the lines would set her "employer" back a hundred and fifty, two hundred big ones. The pay was peanuts compared to getting a boat like that as a fucking tip. "You're sure you're not drug runners?" "Quite," the girl said, chuckling. "We are in, as you say, the other war." Randy frowned at that and then nodded. "Which side?" he asked. There had to be a catch. "The side of the angels, Petty Officer," the girl said, placatingly. "Truly, we need your expertise. Are you in?" I'm going to regret this. "I'm in." So here he was, eating a cheeseburger and nursing an overpriced but really fucking good Mountain Tiger beer while watching the sun slowly sinking towards the yard arm. Two o'clock in other words. Whatever you could say about the gig, whoever these fuckers were, sitting on a dock, eating a burger, beer in hand, watching the intercoastal on a balmy day in a Florida winter, well, that weren't bad. He didn't know who, exactly, he was meeting. Not even any names. No names at all, in fact. All he'd been told was that there would be five boats, "fast boats". Five turning up all at once, well, he'd be able to figure out who that was. And sure enough, here they came, motoring along in a straggling line and really slow. Not even idling. Lug speed, that spot where a boat still wasn't planing but it was digging up one monster wake, nose pointed at the sky. It was just. . . ugly. But, Oh, My, God, the boats! A couple of them were in rough shape, one was a Cig 36 circa 99 if he was right, and the Nordic had seen better days. But the lead was a practically mint fucking Fountain Lightning 42! He'd nearly fainted when he saw one at a show; the fucker smoked. Reggie Fountain made "the fastest, safest boats on the water." Just ask him. Not to mention some of the most luxurious.

Forget two hundred bills, the Fountain was closer to three quarter mil and worth every penny. God, if only he got to choose. He didn't even care if it had the full racing pack. Fuck selling it, too. He walked down the dock, beer in hand, then set it down as the drivers tried to dock. They acted like they'd never driven a boat before. No clue about sail area, no clue about dual engines. The guy driving the Hustler powered up when he should have backed and slammed, hard, into the pilings. Ouch. Jesus Christ, they were fucking cherries. Real, "What's a throoottle?" cherries. He could tell. Christ. Oh, this was so gonna suck. *** "Vil, we suck," Clarn said as he rebounded off the pier. "I think I just broke my boat." "We have to learn," Vil said. "Remember what the man said, there is no such thing as too slow." Vil was taking him at his word, barely creeping into the slot. *** A bit of a crowd had come out of the bar. Fast boats were pretty common in the south Florida area, but five at once was somewhat unusual. As was a group with such bad boat handling skills driving them. Randy seriously didn't want to do the introductions with people wandering around looking at the boats. But that was how it was going to go. The Fountain was driven by a tall, really handsome guy. Hell, all ten of the group were damned good looking. Randy wasn't a slouch, but these guys were drawing the girls for more than just the boats. The rest stayed in the boats as the guy clambered out. Randy had handled most of the line work with just a toss from the rear from the throttler. The tall guy walked over and Randy held out his hand. "Randy Holterman," Randy said. "Petty Officer," the guy said. In Russian. Shit, somebody had been reading his service record. Randy had picked up the language thinking it might be useful. It had turned out to be about as useful as tits on a hog except for picking up the occasional Russian girl that hung around South Florida. "Lieutenant Vil Mahona, Georgian Mountain Infantry." "Hello, Lieutenant," Randy said. "My Russian is poor now." "It will come back to you," Vil replied. "Few will be able to understand us, yes? Oh, if asked, we are the Mountain Tiger Racing Team. I am team leader." Randy bent down and held up the bottle. "This Mountain Tiger?" he asked, wrinkling his brow. "That Mountain Tiger, yes," Vil said. "We are here to learn to drive fast boat." "Mountain Tiger speed-boat racing team," Randy said in English, shaking his head. "Is that anything like the Jamaican bob-sled team?"

"I do not know," Vil answered in Russian. "I do not know what bob-sled is. Jamaica. . . Is an island in the Caribbean, yes?" "Yes," Randy said, grinning and shaking his head. "Well, let us talk," Vil said, turning and waving to the rest of the team. "I see they serve our swill here. Let us find out how bad it is after travel." ***

Chapter Eight

"This is suck," Danes said in English, holding up the bottle. "Is shame upon our name. Is insult to Fera, Goddess of Beer. Is Mother Lenka knowing how bad this is?" "Yes," Beso said, belching. "Have you not heard her cackling about it?" "I have," Vil said, shaking his head. "Has been asking me to find reviews on internet. Have not seen her so happy since cutting up Chechens in pass. Is laughing so hard tears are coming out of eyes. Mother Lenka. Laughing." He took a swig and winced. "World is coming to end." "Guys, this is good shit," Holterman said, taking a sip. He couldn't figure out what they were complaining about. Mountain Tiger was expensive as hell but it was the shit. It made the best German beer he'd ever had taste like Budweiser. "It is swill," Vil said, in Russian. "Fit only for pigs. Our pigs would turn up their noses. When we get to Bahamas, we will show you what good beer tastes like. But that is for later. We are needing to take boats to Nassau. You are coming with, yes?" "Sure," Randy said. "They said I'd be traveling. I've got a bag. But there's a problem." "Which is?" Vil asked. "Well, there's about a thousand," Randy said, shaking his head. "You guys are obviously clueless about boats. Okay, it's my job to make you less clueless. But there's one of me and ten of you. There's five boats. I can only be in one place at a time. That's problem one. Problem two is that all those boats don't have the same range. I didn't look close but they all look stock. Some of them are going to have more gas than others. If you're planning on doing long runs, they're going to need extended range tanks. On the way over we can tank at Bimini. But if you're going to be doing distant running. . . you need more tankage." "Where can we get those installed?" Vil asked. "The problem is not where," Randy said, shaking his head. "The problem is when. The boatyards around here have a month or more backlog." "Can we do it in the Bahamas?" "Same problem," Randy said. "They're backed up, too." "Where can we get this job done, quickly," Vil asked, sighing. "Think outside the box, yes?" "Any boat yard that has the parts and the time," Randy said, shrugging. "The parts. . . some of them could be custom manufactured by a boat yard. Others you could order from the manufacturer if they're in stock. But you need people that are capable of doing this stuff with boats. And they're scarce." "Would your Navy have such?" Vil asked, cocking one eyebrow.

"Well, yeah, up at Little Creek they've got a mobile yard, but. . ." Randy paused and shook his head. "Don't tell me you guys can. . ." "We will see when we get back to base," Vil said. "Next problem." "Timing," Randy said, glancing at his watch. "I can't figure out whether you guys are more of a menace in the intercoastal or offshore, but if we're going offshore we need to clear the Bal Harbor cut. Now, you seem like fine people, but Bal Harbor any time but slack tide is a ball-buster. There are standing waves run twenty feet high. If you fuck up with one of these on those waves, you can do a somersault and pancake. You get me?" "Turn upside down?" Vil said, frowning. "Exactly," Randy said. "It's easier than it sounds. You have to keep your hand on the throttle, throttling up and back, anyway. You hit a wave, you jerk forward, you push the throttle forward, thing goes from thousand RPMs to three thousand in an instant. You're all of a sudden looking at sky then water then darkness. So we need to hit the cut at slack tide. It's about twenty minutes from here if we hurry. Slack tide is in three hours. When slack hits, everybody who's been too terrified to do the cut comes barreling through. So you're going to have to be good enough in two hours and forty minutes to survive the traffic jam. Either that, or we're staying here overnight." "We can do that if necessary but it is not preferred," Vil said. "So we must hurry. Any other problems?" "Oh, loads," Randy said. "But one's really bugging me." "What?" Vil asked, seriously. "I got this sinking feeling that not one of you knows Margaritaville by heart." *** "How much is this one?" Souhi asked, picking up a Garmin GPS off of the display. The kiosk was in the Straw Market in Nassau, an outdoor market which mostly sold woven straw products that were "locally" produced even if many of them had "Made in China" stickers. However, besides the ubiquitous straw hats, donkeys, dolphins and every other conceivable shape, it also featured cheap t-shirt outlets, various souvenirs and, notably, a fair selection of boating gear. This particular shop specialized in navigation systems and had a pretty good selection of new and used on display. "For you, two hundred," the Pakistani shopkeeper said. "Very good model. State of the art." "Too much," Souhi said, setting it down. "How about another?" "This one is less," the Pakistani said, shrugging and pulling out a cheaper model. "Not as nice. For you, since we are friends, one thirty." "I have a trade," Souhi said, pulling out a similar model and setting it on the counter.

"You want my children to starve," the Pakistani said, picking it up and keying it on. He sorted through the menu then shrugged, tossing it carelessly on the counter. "I give you twenty dollars in trade. It is old and worn." The device was practically brand new. "Thirty," Souhi said, picking up the new GPS. "One hundred even." "Done," the Pakistani replied. Souhi counted out the money in twenties and handed it over. "My children will starve," the Pakistani said, putting the cash in his box. "But they will live to see wonderful things," Souhi said, pocketing the new GPS. *** "This is wonderful," Katya said, looking around the stateroom. The sun had set and the gathering had moved indoors. In Katya and Juan's case, much further indoors to his bedroom. Katya was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only a string bikini patterned in the American flag, bouncing up and down and, frankly, jiggling. "You are wonderful," Juan said, somewhat thickly. He'd had quite a few body shots between tits and navel. Also a rather professional lap dance. "Do you know you look just like Britney Spears?" "Pregnant?" Katya asked, grinning. Damned right she knew she looked like the American tramp. She'd slid inserts into the pouches in her cheeks and done her makeup carefully. Juan's weakness for blondes, and that one in particular, were part of his dossier. "When she was younger," Juan said, sitting down next to her. "You look very much like her." He leaned over and pulled her bikini down. "I have always wanted to be sucked by Britney Spears." "Then you just make like I'm her, honey," Katya said, whipping off the top and standing up. "I'm your Britney tonight, baby!" She swung the top around and wiggled her hips. "You want Live in Las Vegas or Baby Hit Me?" "I wish you had a school girl outfit," Juan said, panting as he dropped his pants. "Come here and suck me you little slut. You know you want to." "Oh, yeah, baby!" Katya said, dropping to her knees. The guy was flaccid from being so drunk but she could take care of that. She was also pretty sure that he wouldn't notice the difference between one highly trained professional giving him a blow-job and the sort you usually got from college girls. On the other hand. . . Hey, that meant she didn't have to give him a good blow. Excellent. The position, however, gave her a chance to slip one of the bugs under the bed. As she slowly and somewhat inexpertly fellated him, she slipped one out and placed it. That's two. "Harder," Juan said, grabbing her hair and pushing. "Faster!"

She kept her suction down but sped up. He wasn't coming this way. She wanted him to keep her around, though, so she'd have to figure out something. "My jaw's sore," she said, pulling back. "Lemme get on top." She pushed him back on the bed and pulled off her bottom then slid his still slightly flaccid member into place. "Touch these," she said, bringing his hands up to her breasts as she pumped up and down. "You're fucking Britney now, babe!" "Sing to me. . ." Juan panted. "I want it all. . ." Katya started singing one of the vocalist's better known songs, trying like hell to remember the words. One of the harem girls was a big fan but Katya didn't really care about music. She hummed through most of it. All she could really remember was the chorus because it pissed her off so badly. She'd been smacked around enough in her time. "I want to fuck your ass off," Juan said, rolling her over. "Little slut!" Then he hit her. Hard. A solid slap on the face. Katya hadn't been expecting it and it nearly broke her out of cover. Her first response was to sink her fingernails into him and start pumping the bastard full of poison. But that would truly fuck the mission. It took her a moment to figure out the response that some American college girl in the same situation would have. In the meantime, he'd backhanded her as well, cursing the singer all the time. "Ow!" Katya said, raising her arms. If he'd been a pimp, if she was in her usual cover as a whore, she would have just taken it. But that was the wrong response for her current cover. "Wait! Stop!" she pleaded. Damn, why was she always getting hit? "Little ass-shaking bitch!" Juan shouted, slapping at her again. "This is what you deserve!" "Please stop!" Katya whined. She had to dig deep for that act. She hadn't begged since she was. . . She really didn't want to go there. Finally he came and pulled out almost immediately. "I like you," Juan said, pulling her up by her hair. "You're going to stick around." "I just want to leave," Katya said. "Please. . ." "Just try," the Colombian replied. "You're going to stick around. And you're going to make yourself up just the same way. You're going to be my Britney and I'm going to fuck your ass off. I'm going to fuck your ass. And you'd better learn to suck better, too. You'll go when I tell you to. You'll call your parents when I tell you to. And you'll tell them you're having a great time. Or you won't be going home. You got that?" He shoved her back onto the bed, releasing her hair. "Little party sluts like you, they get what they deserve." "Please," Katya pleaded, tears in her eyes. The fucker was, some of them were real. It was the surprise. Now that she knew what was coming, she'd be able to handle it.

"Yeah, you go on begging," Juan said, pulling on his pants. "Just like that little bitch should beg." After he'd left, Katya got up and shuffled to the bathroom of the suite, got a towel to control the drips and went back to the bed. She lay down on her side, still sniffling although tears were, finally, fake and fumed. This motherfucker was purely going to die. But first she was going to fuck him over. Big time. And before he died she'd make sure he knew it. Just before he died. *** "Hello, Gloria, is Daria, how are you?" Gloria Chatham shook her head. They'd just done a charter for the Kildar. Two big planes. Now Daria was calling again. "Hello, Daria," Gloria said. "I'm fine. How are you?" "Very well," Daria said. "I am in Bahamas. You know Bahamas?" "I do," Gloria said. "I wish I was in the Bahamas." "Well, perhaps you can get time off, come down with plane," Daria said. "Kildar is needing Gulfstream. Two weeks at minimum. May be longer. Two crews. You have?" "I do," Gloria said. "Captain Hardesty is on another charter at the moment, but. . ." "Perhaps send crew and half," Daria said. "Have Captain Hardesty come down later. We will pay plane fare and that. Have quarters ready. Nassau Airport, yes?" "We can do that," Gloria said. "I'll send two crews and when John gets free he can come down and relieve one of the pilots." "Very good," Daria said. "We pay for both ways, of course. Usual fees?" "I don't know," Gloria said. "Are we going to get our plane back?" "If you do not, Kildar will buy," Daria said, obviously grinning. "But, yes, you get plane back. Is not problem this time. Promise." "I'll get the plane rolling within the hour," Gloria said. After she hung up the phone she raised her voice. "Thooomas!" "Yes, dear?" "Mr. Jenkins again," she called. "Needs a Gulfstream in Nassau. Wants John when he can catch up. Tickets paid both ways and so forth." "Then send them First Class," her husband called back, somewhat angrily. "I swear, that man. . . I don't think we should take any more charters from him!"

"The pilots love it and you know it," Gloria said, getting up and walking to the door of her husband's office. "James Bond and all that. Mister Super-Spy." "The man's a menace," Thomas Chatham said. "One of these days we're going to lose a plane and a couple of pilots, mark my words." "There's a reason you only hire fighter pilots, dear," Gloria pointed out. "And they do get so tired of ferrying Mister 'I made my money in stocks and bought a trophy wife' around. Besides, it's the Bahamas. I'd like to take off for the Bahamas myself." "Who'd tend the shop?" Thomas asked, waving his hands around. "Maria, dear," Gloria said. "Take one of the pilot slots. You're always saying you don't get enough stick time. And I could meet Daria. She seems like a lovely young lady." "You just want to meet Mr. Super-Spy," Thomas said, grinning. " 'My name is. . .Jenkins," he added, dropping his voice. " 'Mike Jenkins.'" "Actually, I think he's just called 'the Kildar', now." *** "This is the Cut," Mike said, gesturing around. "It doesn't look like much," Britney said. She could see it was shallow water in every direction, but other than that it wasn't much to look at. There wasn't even an island to mark it. Hell, there wasn't even a buoy. "It's not marked?" "The current moves it around all the time," Mike said. "The entrance, anyway. And the Bahamas government is not the greatest about channel markers, anyway." "You think this is where they're going through?" Britney asked. "If we're not totally off base," Mike replied. "And they're going to have to tank somewhere north, before they load; there's not many fueling facilities down here between Bimini and Nassau." "Do we have enough fuel?" Britney asked. "Plenty," Mike said. "Extended range tanks on this baby. It's one of the cigarettes the muj were using down in the Andros." "You mentioned that one," Britney said. "And to Sol." "He'd figured it out," Mike said. "We need to call in his tip on those two suspects," Britney said. "Where were they?" "Tavernier," Mike said. "Between Largo and Islamorada. Got the cheapest gas in the area if you know where to look. Okay, time's awastin. Let's take the cut." ***

Chapter Nine

"Bal Harbor Cut," Randy said, pointing at the entrance. The dark brown water rushing through the narrow, concrete-walled channel was humped up in head high waves. Bal Harbor Cut was one of the few openings in this section of the string of barrier islands that lined the Atlantic coast. About fifty yards wide it was deep enough to take a major vessel but too narrow. Not to mention the fixed bridge that crossed it. However, since it was the only way through to the ocean for miles, it was a busy place. Fishermen lined the fishing pier, a former bridge, that jutted out over it and a cluster of boats was gathered on the inshore side of the cut, where it opened out into the intercoastal waterway. The boats were mostly motoring in circles, occasionally dodging each other or backing and filling. Randy had led the group of racers off to the south side of the entrance, grounded in shallow water. The tide was incoming so getting off shouldn't be hard and he'd rather have to recover one of the racers than have one of the meat drivers smash one into some guy's fishing boat. The boats had anchors out and he'd gathered all the guys on the Lightning. "In about ten, fifteen minutes the waves will go down," Randy said. "Then everybody and their brother will go running through. Those guys will go gunning for the exit. There's going to be another group on the other side; they'll be running to enter. There's probably more people that are going to come running from around the corner. Arguably, boats like this could do the cut easy," he said, pointing as a big Donzi came in through the cut, pitching up and down on the waves. "But until you're a little more comfortable with the boats, I'd rather not." He'd spent time with each of the boats, running the group through basic maneuvers and rules of the road. Most of it was common sense and, thank God, these Mountain Tiger guys seemed to have that in spades. They also were quick studies. Most of the minor mistakes they'd made so far was just stuff he hadn't had time to cover. And they only made the same mistake once. The problem being, the sea was an unforgiving mistress and there were a million mistakes you could make that were fatal. "While staying right, stay as close to the center-line as you can," Randy continued. "Avoid the rocks along the sides. Ignore the waves from the other boats, just take them head on. I'm going to wait until the beginnings of the outflow to start. Any questions?" "Why is that water acting like a river?" Shaynav Mahona asked after a moment. "Is the ocean, yes?" "You guys don't know what tides are, do you?" Randy said, backing up and realizing he had a long way to go with these guys. "Oh, Jeeze. Okay, the moon pulls up a bulge of water as it circles the earth. That means the water rises as it passes overhead. More or less. Sort of. Right now it's rising. In a bit it will stop at what's called high tide. Also called slack. There's slack low, when the moon is on the other side, and slack high. When it starts to flow out it's called ebb tide, the tide's 'running.' Coming in it's flood tide. Everybody with me so far?" "Yes," Vil answered but the group generally nodded.

"Okay," Randy said, trying to think how to put the rest. "That back there," he said, pointing toward the intercoastal, "that's a sort of big. . .basin that's cut off from the ocean by islands. When the water starts rising it rises in the ocean easily, but there are only so many places, sort of like the necks on a bottle of beer, for it to get in. This is one of them. So it rushes in, really fast. The reason for the standing waves is too complicated to get into," he added, grinning. "But that's why it looks like a river." "My boat is floating," Clarn said, pointing to the Hustler. "Because water is rising, yes?" "Yes. Go over and start it up," Randy said. "Run it in a bit more and tighten up the anchor." The boats had been arranged practically touching but the Hustler and now the smaller Cigarette were both drifting out from the formation. "Nice boats!" The hail had come from a small dinghy with three teenaged girls in it. Young girls. Fourteen will get you twenty girls. "Thanks," Randy called back as the Keldara clambered over the side. "They yours?" "My boss'," Randy said. "We're delivering them to him in the Bahamas." "Can we go for a ride?" the driver of the boat asked. She was a cute little blonde, the other two being nearly as cute brunettes. "You're way too young to be accepting rides from strange men in boats," Randy said. "I'd love to, but we've got to hit the cut and then head for Bimini. And I don't think your folks want you riding over to Bimini." "Damn," the girl said. "Okay. Maybe another time." "You got any questions?" Randy said as Vil pulled the boat forward. Genrich was up front, pulling in the anchor line and securing it. The one thing Randy hadn't had to teach these guys, thank God, were knots. Those they knew. Probably from climbing. "A million," Vil admitted in Russian. "Not all of them about boats. Was that young lady serious?" "Yeah," Randy said. "Stupid but serious." "Very stupid," Vil said. "I will not speak to her morals, I know that the cultures are different. But. . . Where I came from, until the coming of the Kildar, girls such as her were always escorted by men. Because of moral issues, yes, but also because they were often kidnapped and turned into whores." "Plenty of girls get snatched in the US every year," Randy said. "Boys too but more girls. And they usually either disappear or end up as a rape/murder case. But. . . Generally not by guys driving quarter of a million dollar boat. Oh, there are exceptions. A guy like that, identity unknown, is still the top suspect in a multiple rape murder over in Tampa. But mostly they're safe; they've got too much to lose to screw some fourteen year old. So she figured she'd get a ride in a fast boat, which is always fun, get dropped off and motor on her way. Hell, she's probably done it before. The waters around here are still safer on that score than about anywhere else in the world."

"Very confusing," Vil said. "I wish that the Kildar had assigned Sawn's team to this. I love the boats, don't get me wrong. I think we will do well. But it is all very confusing. Sawn is. . .was better at confusing." "Was?" Randy asked. "He. . .bought the farm you say," Vil replied. "In a battle about a month ago. And much of his team was bought the farm or are recovering. Was very bad battle." "Wait," Randy said, his eyes wide. "That sniper shot on TV?" "Yes," Vil said, nodding. "Lasko. He is magic. Black magic. Nearly three kilometers. Impossible shot. Right through the X ring." "Damn, that was your guys?" Randy said. "Bet you're glad you weren't there." "I lost two men," Vil said. "More in hospital. Tuul is still home recovering. Clarn probably should be; he took a chest shot at nearly point blank range. Two units of whole blood are the only reason he's here." "Oh," Randy said. He'd kept up with the discussion of the battle on the boards. The questions about it were still raging. Nobody could believe that the group had survived the reported correlation of forces. Or that the sniper shot had been made at the range that it looked like on TV. That was damned near two miles. But here he was sitting next to one of the guys who had been in the battle. If Vil had questions, Randy had as many. "Well, you're doing fine with the electronics," Randy said. Vil had figured out the complicated navigational system for a treat. He was still leaning to read the markings, but the controls he had cold. "These are not complicated," Vil said, sighing and gesturing at the console. "We work with satellite communications, battlefield computers, GPS, all of that very much. Water. These boats? The society? Father of All they are complicated." "Father of All?" Randy asked. "Is our way of saying God," Vil replied. "The boats are starting to move." "Yeah," Randy said, standing up. "Okay!" he yelled. "Weigh anchor!" "How are we to weigh it?" Clarn yelled. "Where is the scale?" "Oh, Jesus," Randy said, grabbing his hair. *** "I'm getting a base," Mike said. "Not just the yacht. For one thing, the Keldara are hot bunking." The run from the cut to Nassau had been fast. The passage had lower waves than the Florida Straits so he'd cranked the boat up to the maximum he felt he could run given fuel usage, which went way up at max speed. At ninety miles an hour, the run had gone quickly.

"We need some sort of confirmation on what's going on," Britney said. "If you get a base near Nassau and it's all happening down around Andros. . ." "I'm not going near Andros," Mike said, chuckling. "My pilots won't go near Andros. Not on a bet. They, through a remarkable coincidence, are the pilots who were flying the FAST in when the nuke went up. Kacey still bitches about that. Only bird she's ever dumped." "She's very. . .cocky," Britney said. "Pilots usually are," Mike replied. "Good ones. But in her case it's justified. None of the Keldara saw her take out the bunkers that got. . . Well, anyway, there were some Rangers watching. Words like 'unbelievable' and 'awesome' were the minimum they used. Apparently she just went insane. You can. . . do incredible things when you're out of your mind." "Seen it," Britney said, grinning. "That wasn't as far as I've gone," Mike said. "The Keldara are still whispering about the Charge of the Kildar in the last battle. I don't really remember it. But even Adams was impressed and he's hard to impress. And then. . ." "You collapsed," Britney said. "It happens. Post combat reaction can be as bad as postpartum depression. As I said, lots of counseling. And, hell, that's why I got my bachelors in psych." "Great," Mike said, shaking his head. "Just what I need. A shrink." "Frankly, you probably do," Britney replied. "But I'm not going to analyze you. We'll talk, when you feel up to it." "Nassau," Mike said, pointing at the island on the horizon. Boat traffic had definitely picked up and the Cigarette jumped over a series of waves from the wake of a freighter. "And that freighter could be the very one we're looking for." "No," Britney said. "If they're already moving things in, it's not. The one we're looking for is somewhere up there," she added, pointing north. *** "Sir, got a strange track," the radar tech said. The deck officer for the CIC of the aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan walked over and looked at the screen. "Whatcha got?" "Freighter," the tech said. "Sierra forty-two. I only bring it up cause I saw it yesterday. And the day before. It's just cruising back and forth." She highlighted the track then brought up a previous day's track. "Same general position. It's doing a long figure eight, just running back and forth." The CIC officer didn't know why the carrier battle group, which normally was doing "power projection" somewhere in the Middle East was stuck patrolling up and down the Florida coast. But he did know that they were told to report anything "suspicious" to higher.

"Could be a Lloyds Looper," the tech said, shrugging. And that was the problem with it being "suspicious." It really wasn't. Freighters were a business which meant that most of the time they should be going from point A to point B, preferably filled with cargo. But under certain circumstances, related to obscure insurance rules, circling around in the middle of no-where made more financial sense. Six ships had been detected, shortly after the Iraq war kicked off, circling in the Indian Ocean. After debating it for a while, spec ops teams descended on them in the middle of the night. No illicit cargo was found in them. In fact no cargo was found in them. It turned out that for insurance reasons, it was more profitable for them to stay at sea, waiting for their next load, than to tie up along shore. Even burning as much diesel as they did. The term had become "Lloyds Looper" even though Lloyds was no longer the only insurer of freighters in the world. "Keep an eye on it," the deck officer said, shrugging. "If it stays there we'll drop the data in the net and put up a Viking to keep an eye on it. Good eye, PO." "Thank you," the young lady said, smiling. Then she got back to work. All the "Atta-girls" in the world could be erased by one "Oh, shit." *** "Oh, shit," Mike said when he looked at the invitation. It was just after the rapid tropical dusk when he'd pulled up alongside the yacht. And the first person who confronted him was Anastasia with an open envelope in her hand. The message was simple: You are cordially invited to a small party onboard the White Line. Festivities begin at eight but feel free to turn up earlier. Casual dress. Up to seven invited. "That's Gonzales' boat," Mike said, blinking. He was sunburned and sore from being beaten around in a Cigarette all day. And now this. "And it is nearly eight," Anastasia said. "But I would recommend a shower." "If I'm going," Mike said. "This guy may be connected to the people that shot up Vanner and Adams. And I need to be briefed in on what's been going on. And why seven?" "I asked about that," Anastasia said, dimpling. "I met a very nice lady in the market, a local who sells baskets. She has much knowledge of the local customs and we'd chatted yesterday. So I dropped by after we got the message. The White Line is a noted party boat, yes? But only pretty ladies and the. . .better class are invited. And the better class. . . Well, they generally bring a guest, a partner, female or male, and a few. . .assistants." "Oh," Mike said, nodding and chuckling. "I can bring up to five bodyguards." "Yes," Anastasia said. "I would recommend Oleg, Shota. . ." Either of the two could have been NFL linebackers.

"Telling me my job, are you?" Mike said. "Yes. Oleg and Shota. Tell Oleg I want him in shorts. Oleg, Shota. . . you, Britney and Greznya. Tell Greznya to get dressed then head for my stateroom. Anything else?" "Daria wishes to speak to you," she said. "Tell her to come on in the bathroom," Mike said. "It's not like she's never seen me naked." *** "Kildar?" Daria said, walking in the large bathroom. The Kildar was in the shower, soaping his short hair. "Hey, Daria, whatcha got?" Mike called. "I have found a land base," Daria said, looking at her notes. "A villa on a private island in the Abacos. That is the area you wished, yes?" "Yes," Mike said. "It has fourteen bedrooms, a private landing strip capable of handling a small jet and underground refueling tanks," Daria said. "Also servant's quarters. Enough room for the Keldara to 'spread out.' I have contacted a company to ensure they are fully fueled for both diesel for the generators and aviation fuel for the boats. The same company is delivering food and other supplies. The shipping company's boat with the container has been diverted. I contacted Chatham Aviation and requested a Gulfstream and two crews." "That wasn't on the list," Mike said, sounding puzzled. "You are probably going to be flying back and forth from here to there," Daria pointed out. "A Gulfstream is faster than the Lynx." "You're a gem, Daria," Mike said. "The boat has been reprovisioned," she continued. "We have bunker fuel for a four thousand mile run and sufficient provisions. I had a call from Vil regarding the boats he picked up, though." "How's that going?" Mike asked. "They are on their way," Daria responded. "They have had some problems, but they are on their way. However, all of the boats are not set up for long range operations. . ." "They need tanks," Mike said, sighing and stepping out of the shower. He picked up one of the supplied towels, which was so thick it was almost a nuisance, and started drying off. "Yes," Daria said, turning away politely. She had, in fact, seen him naked several times. But right now she didn't need the distraction. "I contacted a number of boatyards in the area and none of them could get free even when I suggested a large sum of money for a rush job. Apparently. . ." "Nassau is awash in money," Mike said, nodding. "And do you have a fix?"

"Possibly," Daria said. "But it will require calling Colonel Pierson." "Fix it," Mike said, shrugging. "Fast." "I will do so," Daria said, making a note. "Good girl," Mike said, pecking her on the cheek and wrapping the towel around his middle. "I'm sorry I'm not bringing you to the party. I can dump Britney if you wish." "No," Daria said, shaking her head. "I have been in the lion's den. I do not wish to go back. Thank you. I will go take care of these issues." "Okay," Mike said, striding out into the bedroom. "Thanks. Oh, hi Greznya." "Hello, Kildar," Greznya said, blushing slightly. "Hey," Mike said. "Stay there," he continued, walking into the closet and shutting the door. "Go." "I have a list of the probable people that are being invited to the party," Greznya said. "Along with some background bio. Most of them are more or less legitimate businessmen or retirees. Mostly European but a few Americans. There are a few key members of the Bahamas government expected as well." "Not surprising," Mike said. "I'll look it over before I head over. Go." "I have had a brief conversation with Lieutenant Harder," Greznya said, her voice slightly raised. "If your surmise is correct we should be getting some data. There is a carrier battle group patrolling the Florida coast. Only on their south end, though, do they get into the area where the freighter would probably be located." She paused and looked at her notes. "We put the information about the two men into the law enforcement database which is being used for this mission. The current emphasis is on containers coming in. There is a note from CIA that that is the intended method of insertion." "Love to know the means on it," Mike said, walking out fully dressed. "CIA usually can't find their ass with both hands." He paused and held his arms out. "What do you think?" "What is that shirt?" Greznya asked, her eyes wide. "It's a Hawaiian shirt," Mike said, looking down at the eye-searing monstrosity. It was mostly purple flowers with a red and yellow background. "It's all the rage." "As you say, Kildar," Greznya said. "If I am going with you, I had better change." And put in some contacts, she thought. Eye shielding ones. "Absolutely," Mike said. "Meet us at the poop deck in ten minutes." "Why do they call it the poop deck?" Greznya asked, pausing. "It's where the poop heads used to hang out." *** Souhi was exhausted. He could barely think as he brought the Cigarette up alongside the freighter.

The loop the boats were taking took nearly two days. Two days of constantly being banged around by waves, except the rare flat periods when they were interior channels. Run up from Nassau through the Abacos. Tank. Run up to the freighter, arriving under cover of darkness. Tank while riding alongside, not the easiest thing in the world. Pick up the cargo then run down the coast. Hope they had enough gas to make it to Nassau. If they were critically low on fuel they could stop at Nicoll's Town, but that was an easy way to get detected. In Nassau they were given one night's reprieve. Then they had to do it all over again. The crew of the freighter lowered a fuel hose. Zakharia Al-Shemari, the third member of the team, grabbed the hose then pulled off a small, sealed box and dropped it on the deck. Then he laboriously dragged the hose to the hungry maw of the fuel tanks. Kahf, moving slowly, picked up the box then sat back down, holding it in his lap. Souhi kept the Cigarette as close to the freighter as he dared as the tanks filled. He had to fight the wash from the freighter, which alternately threatened to push them so far out they lost the hose then drag them in to crash into the side of the freighter. And this was good weather. Finally, the tanking was done, the hose retracted and he could pull away. As the crew strapped down he turned opposite to the freighter's course and added power. Kahf sat down next to him, still holding the precious box, and strapped in. "I don't know how much longer I can do this," the fedayeen diver said, bouncing in time with the boat. "Only three more runs," Souhi pointed out. "Where's the next drop?" Technically, Souhi was the only one who was supposed to know the key operational details so Kahf looked at him quizzically then opened the small box. Inside was a scrap of paper. "Twenty-four, fifty by eighty twenty-seven," Rahf said then slipped the paper back into the box. Souhi, still driving the boat, punched the coordinates into the GPS and then nodded. "Off Largo," he said. "Closer this time by a bit. A long run, though. First, to the pick-up point." The Cigarette plunged across the big Atlantic rollers, headed east. . . ***

Chapter Ten

Mike pulled the Cigarette up to the landing platform and backed as he came alongside, reversing the starboard engine to bring the rear of the boat around. The line handlers were much better trained than the Keldara he had to admit. They scrambled aboard, picking up the mooring lines before any of Mike's party could do more than stand up and had the boat secured in an instant. However, they didn't look Colombian. Indonesians at a guess. Mike climbed out of the boat, showing his invitation to a big guy wearing an earbud. "Mike Jenkins," the Kildar said. "Pleased to meetcha. Nice boat." "Yes, sir," the man said, nodding and gesturing to the ladder up to the yacht. "Welcome aboard the White Line." "Am I supposed to salute?" Mike asked, as he walked up the stairway. The rear deck of the yacht was about packed with people already. Another man, much smaller and dressed in a white blazer, held his hand out for Mike's invitation, read it briefly then nodded. "Michael Jenkins and associates," the man boomed. He had a much more resonant voice than his appearance suggested. "Mountain Tiger Breweries." "And bearing gifts," Mike said, gesturing to the crate that Shota was carrying. "The good stuff." The man waggled a finger at one of the waiters and the crate was hurriedly shuffled off to the bar. "Mr. Jenkins," Juan Gonzales said, walking over with his hand out. "A real pleasure to meet you. I've heard so much about you." "The pleasure is all mine, Senor," Mike said, shaking his hand affably. "And if I could introduce my friends?" "And lovely friends they are," Gonzales said, nodding. "Britney Harder, Anastasia Rakovich, Greznya Mahona, Senor Juan Gonzales," Mike said. "Juan, meet Bambi, Anna and Grez." "Please make yourselves at home," Gonzales said, shaking hands. "My boat is your boat. Mr. Jenkins, there are some people that I think you must meet." "Glad to," Mike said, grabbing Lt. Harder's hand. "I think Bambi wants to meet them, too." "Of course," the lieutenant said, smiling. *** "Britney Harder," Suarez said, shaking his head. "Second Lieutenant, SOCOM G-2, South America section. She's one of their people for tracking people like, well, us."

"Unsure of herself but combat trained," Ritter said, nodding. "Look at the walk." "I can see," Enrico said. "Anastasia Rakovich. Former harem girl of an Uzbek sheik. Jenkins' domestic manager. The other girl, the two guys, I got nothing on them." "You don't need it for the guys," Ritter said, pointing to the monitor. "One of them was either in a bad wreck recently or, more likely, serious combat. Look at that prosthetic. But he doesn't seem slowed down by it. The other one. . .pure muscle." "He's big enough, that's for sure," Suarez said. "The girl I've got nothing on, either." "Have you penetrated their system?" Ritter asked. "Not even close," the Mexican admitted. "Their encryption is a stone bitch, they've got firewalls from hell, some of them ones I've never seen before as if they're something custom made just for them. And they're paranoid; I've tried, twice, to do a serious attack and both times they nearly tracked me back even though I went through multiple systems. Hell, they tracked me through satellites. And about half of the boat's screened against electronic penetration. Unless we get somebody on the inside, forget it. I don't even know, for sure, what they've got in there. But the traffic level, both directions, is massive. And they've been running stuff through distributed servers a lot. I've gotten the data but without the encryption scheme it's just ones and zeros. Mostly zeroes." *** "Mr. Michael Jenkins," Gonzales said, walking over to a man in Bahamas Constabulary uniform, "Colonel Horatio Montcrief, regional constabulary commander." "Colonel," Mike said, shaking the man's hand. "It's a pleasure to see you again!" "And you, Mr. Jenkins," the colonel said, grinning. "The last time was. . . in Andros wasn't it?" "Bimini," Mike said, shaking his head. "The blonde and the redhead." "Ah, yes, them," the colonel said. "Whatever happened to them?" "Back at school I presume," Mike said, shrugging. "How is Deirdre?" "Just fine, Mike," the colonel said. "Just fine. I understand you have minions, now." "Friends," Mike said, shrugging. "Associates. Buddies. I could hardly call them minions. And if I could introduce Miss Harder?" Britney's eyes were wide as she shook the constable's hand. For all the reports she'd read the sight of a senior member of the constabulary sharing a friendly drink with a noted drug dealer was hard to take. "Call me. . ." "Bambi," Mike interjected. "She likes that." "Bambi," she said, shooting Mike a glare.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Harder," the colonel said, grinning again. "Sir," a waiter said, holding out a tray of champagne glasses. "Dom Perignon '96," Gonzales said. "Nah," Mike said, waving at the tray. "But could you get me some of the Mountain Tiger? Dom you can pick up in any liquor store by the case. I brought the pure quill, Mother Mahona's brew. That you can only get from the Kildar!" The waiter shot a glance at Gonzales then scurried away with his tray at the expression on his boss' face. "Nice boat," Mike said, looking around. "Bit smaller than mine, though, I think." "Ah, but mine is owned, not rented," Gonzales pointed out. "Point," Mike said, shrugging. "But, hey, I hardly get a chance to get down here anymore. I just brought the harem down for a vacation. Georgia's cold as a witch's tit in the winter." The waiter had returned with four pilsner glasses filled with a rich brown beer. "Ah," Mike said, picking one up and taking a sip. "Nectar of the Gods." Gonzales picked up one of the beers, a frozen expression on his face, and took a sip. His face cleared instantly as he pulled the glass back to look at it. "I take it back, Mr. Jenkins," Juan said, nodding. "I confess to having your Mountain Tiger beer one time and finding it. . . good. This is. . ." "Amazing," Mike said. "And that's just Mother Mahona's. The boys have been trying the stuff we ship out for export and laughing their ass off. No comparison." "This is very good," Colonel Montcrief said. "But I think. . . Did you say 'harem?'" "Do not all rich men have a harem?" Juan asked, waving at the girls that were scattered through the crowd. "Absolutely," Mike said, raising his glass. "But I'm a traditionalist. It started off as a bit of a joke, tell the truth. Some Chechen pimps thought they'd snatch a daughter of one of my. . .associates. Well, I mean, what would that have done for my reputation? So I had to explain to them that that was unwarranted. When we'd cleaned up the blood, I had seven teenaged virgins on my hands that were no deposit, no return. A harem seemed like the natural thing to do at that point." "Of course," Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his beer. "I take it that the young ladies here in the Bahamas are. . ." "My official wards by the grace of the Georgian government," Mike said. "Poor orphans that I took in out of the goodness of my own heart and feed and clothe by my own expense. I've got the paperwork if you'd care to see it?" "Not at all," Montcrief said, smiling.

"The poor homeless waifs," Mike said, shaking his head and wiping a mustache of foam off his lip. "What could I do but take them in and. . .train them." "Of course," Gonzales said, trying not to snarl. "So I make the best beer in the world," Mike said. "What pays for your yacht, Juan?" "Oh, buying and selling," Gonzales said. "A bit of manufacture." "Mr. Gonzales is a drug dealer," Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his beer. "And a very good one. Good enough that neither the government of the Bahamas nor the US government have ever found enough information to prosecute." "A base canard, I'm sure," Mike said, shaking his head. "You thought much the same of me once, Colonel and I assured you you were wrong. I refuse to believe such of Mr. Gonzales. He's far too much the gentleman to be involved in anything like that." "Well, I understand you do a bit more than make beer, Mr. Jenkins," Gonzales said, showing a bit of teeth. "Something about Amnesty International petitioning the International Criminal Court? Killing wounded or some such. A. . .base canard I'm also sure." "Oh, hardly," Mike said. "Actually, I don't think most of them were actually dead when we buried them." "So the ICC will be bringing charges," Gonzales said, shaking his head. "I am so sorry." "Oh, hardly," Mike repeated. "No, no, rest assured on that stake. The ICC was presented the information and refused to even view the evidence." "Why?" Montcrief asked, honestly curious. "Probably something about the governments of Russia, China, Japan, Germany, England, France, Germany. . . Oh, it's a long list, telling them to mind their own business," Mike said, smiling thinly. "The ICC can only exist with international support. When they considered touching me they were disabused of their. . . notion of power." "Why?" Montcrief asked. "Well, they all like my beer, don't they," Mike said, taking another sip. "So you consider yourself untouchable?" Gonzales said, his jaw working. "Oh, no, I've frequently been touched," Mike said, pulling Bambi into his side. "Isn't that right, babe?" "Oh, yes," Bambi said, giggling. "He gets touched all the time. Why, I once saw him touched by over a dozen. . ." "That's enough, dear," Mike said, slapping her on the ass. "Why don't you go see if there's a dance floor?" "Okay," Bambi said, giggling again. "I just love dancing!"

"I, too, have guests I must attend to," Juan said, setting down his half finished glass of beer. "If you'll excuse me?" "Absolutely, Mein Host," Mike said, picking up the glass and topping off his own. "You go." "That's a very dangerous enemy you just made," Montcrief said. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Colonel," Mike said. "By the way, your wife's name is Deirdre, right?" "Yes." *** "This is a very nice party," Anastasia said as she and Greznya approached the dance floor. Most of the dancers were women and most of those in their early twenties. Most of them had come with the men who were doing business of one sort of another on the rear deck; there were enough trophy brides on the dance floor to host their very own convention. "I used to love to go to the club in Samarkand." "I've never done this sort of dancing," Greznya admitted. The two were speaking Keldara which was close to Georgian but had not only a very different accent but various loan words that weren't in any database Greznya was aware of. Even if anyone was monitoring over the industrial "club" music, hard to do, it was unlikely they could do a full translation. "WOOO-HOO!" one of the girls hooted, stumbling out of the crowd. She was obviously drunk off her ass already. Pretty with heavy makeup she was close to the spitting image of Britney Spears. The large and impossible to cover bruise on her cheek, however, was off-putting. "This is a GREAT party!" The girl had a bottle of tequila in her hand and handed it to Anastasia. "I'm Alicia!" she said, happily. "Who're you?" "Anna," Anastasia said, looking at the bottle in her hand blankly. "You've got a funny accent," the girl said. "Russian?" "Georgian," Greznya said. "Nah, I heard a Georgia accent before," the girl said in a thick southern drawl. "Ain't like yer's a t'all!" *** "Oh, Father of All," Julia muttered. "What is that girl playing at?" "What?" Olga asked, coming over to look at the monitor. As always, it was jerking around as Katya's eyes moved, but they settled for a moment on Anastasia's face and then Greznya's. "Oh, that is bold." "Katya," Julia said, tapping the transmitter. "We know you're there. But thanks." ***

"Drink up, girl," Katya said, gesturing at the bottle. "This ain't yer Russian vodka. That there's tequeee-la! That's a pahty drink!" Greznya took the bottle from Anastasia's unresisting hand and took a swig. She felt a capsule drop into her mouth and tongued it over to the side, drinking as little of the raw spirits as she could. "Wooo," she said, having a hard time with the hoot while holding the capsule in her cheek. "Come on!" Katya said, taking the bottle back and taking a swig. "Let's party!" *** "What just happened?" Julia asked. The monitor had flickered so fast she hadn't been able to follow it. Olga hit the replay and backed up, going frame by frame. "There," she said. There was a very brief flash of something sliding down the neck of the bottle. Katya had been watching it, too. "God, I hope their people didn't catch that," Julia said. "Be hard," Olga replied. "They're watching a lot of people." *** "Two of the females with Jenkins have hooked up with Alicia," Suarez said when Ritter walked back in the room. "Can you filter for conversation?" Ritter asked. "With Alicia?" Enrico said, chuckling. "It's mostly 'WOO-HOO' or 'PAR-TEE'. But, yeah, and I listened in. She's just learned that there's a country called Georgia as well as a state and isn't assimilating it well. That girl is just about dumb as dog shit." "No pleas to be rescued?" Ritter asked. "How about transfers?" "She doesn't have any pockets," the computer guy said, backing up the recordings and starting at the beginning. "The only thing that's been transferred is a bottle of tequila which is rapidly disappearing." Ritter replayed the video and watched the American girl's hands. She hadn't touched anything but skin on the two girls. Nowhere near their clothes. Although she. . . He backed up and watched her interaction then grunted. "What?" Suarez asked. "What did I miss?" "That that little bitch is bi," Ritter said. "She's making moves on the blonde, Rakovich." "I think this might make video of the week," Enrico said, leaning forward. ***

Anna was enjoying the dancing but not the company. The American girl was extremely loud and kept touching her. Anastasia had played with her friends in the harem. Otryad was as regular as clockwork about his sex with the girls and, frankly, lousy. You had the choice of your own fingers or other's and she had even enjoyed it. But she was not naturally bisexual; she liked men, preferably men holding a whip. The American girl, though, was clearly bi. And she'd settled on Anastasia as a play partner. Anastasia had, also, virtually no experience with anyone trying to pick her up. She knew that was what was going on and wasn't sure how you said "No." Saying "No" wasn't anywhere in her training. As the dance number stopped the drunken girl let out another hoot and grabbed her, sliding her hand onto her breast. "You are so hot!" Alicia said, pulling her head down. "Gimme a kiss!" "Please," Anastasia said, jerking back. "I don't. . . I'm not. . ." "Oh, quit lying," Greznya snapped. "You know you are, you're just shy," she added, grabbing Katya. "I'm not, though. Forget the blonde, how about a redhead." "Oh, yeah!" Alicia said, sliding into her arms. The group let out a loud holler as the two women started kissing on the dance-floor. Naturally, quite a few of the men drifted over as the two started a hard make-out session, writhing with the new music. *** "What's going on?" Mike asked as one of the men came back, shaking his head and grinning. "Couple of girls going at it on the dance-floor," the guy said. "And I mean 'get a room' going at it." "This I gotta see," Mike said, walking over. The crowd at the door was thick so he eventually just hopped up on a chair. Several of the men had. When he saw what was going on, though, his mind froze. Anastasia was standing in the middle of the dance floor, hands on hips and looking more pissed than he'd ever seen her while Greznya was. . . Jesus was she making out with some chick that was a total blank to him. Greznya. Making out. In public. With a woman. He got a hard-on just thinking about it, much less watching. They weren't just kissing, either, their hands were all over each other. And they'd started a cascade, a bunch of the girls, probably because nobody was watching them had started doing the same thing. As Mike watched, frozen, Britney strode across the floor, pushing dancers and other couples out of her way and walked up to Greznya, yanking her back. ***

Britney wasn't sure what was going on but she knew that it was something. Greznya simply wasn't the type to make out in public. Which meant she was doing something in regards to the mission. And the toughest moment is always when you're trying to egress Injun country. But she had an answer to that, too. She walked over and yanked Greznya off the other girl then slapped her, hard. She didn't know if Greznya could fake taking a blow and wasn't going to try under the circumstances. "You bitch!" she screamed. "You two-timing bitch!" *** Greznya had nearly lost the message capsule but managed to catch it at the last moment. She ducked down, her face working and trying to summon up tears. They didn't come naturally to the Keldara. "I'm sorry, Bambi. . ." she sniffled. "I'm sorry. . ." *** "How dare you!" Katya screamed, grabbing the blonde by the hair. She'd seen her come in with the Kildar but didn't recognize her. From the accent she was a real American, probably the liaison officer. "Just because you can't keep her satisfied. . ." *** If the make out session had had everyone riveted, the two swearing women, tearing at each other's clothes and hair, had them cheering. *** Mike jumped down off his chair and forced his way through the crowd, making it to the two before the bouncers. Shota was right behind him. Quite a few people trying to get a better look bounced off unnoticed. "God damn it!" he bellowed, grabbing the by now half-naked Britney and pulling her away from the girl. She had the other girl by her long blonde hair but he managed to pry her fingers off, simultaneously shoving the stranger away. "Bambi I am going to tan your hide! I swear I can't take you girls anywhere!" "Oh, get your fucking hands off of me!" Britney swore, lunging at Katya. "I'm gonna tear that bleached hair out of your head, slut!" "That's enough," Mike shouted, pushing her towards Shota who got a grip on her upper arm that the lieutenant wasn't going to break in her wildest dreams. "Anna, Grez, come!" "I'm very sorry about this," Mike said, as he passed Gonzales on the way to the door. "The girls were just having too much fun and it went to their heads. I apologize." "Not a problem," Gonzales said, grinning. "It will be the talk of the harbor for at least a week."

*** The security had spotted that they were exiting and Mike's Cigarette was alongside before they'd made it to the ladder, Mike dragging Greznya and Anastasia by their upper arms. "I am so going to tan your hides," Mike said. "And Anastasia! I'm surprised you let this happen!" "I'm sorry, Kildar," Anastasia said, practically sobbing. "I don't know what happened. . ." "We are going to have a serious spanking session when we get back, that I can assure you," Mike said, shoving the two girls into the boat. "One that you are not going to enjoy." *** "Are you sure," Ritter said, looking at the video. "Nothing was passed?" "Not a thing," Suarez said, standing up, a flash stick in his hand. "Trust me. I reran that clip a dozen times. Maybe more. Zoomed in all over it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to my quarters. . ." *** Mike jerked the two still pouting girls out of the boat and dragged them up the stairs, Shota still dragging Britney and Oleg stumping along behind. He took them downstairs but instead of turning towards his bedroom, took them down to the intel shack. As soon as Oleg followed and shut the door, Britney dropped into a chair and started laughing so hard she choked. "I don't know exactly what just went on," she said through the tears, "but I'm pretty sure it was a drop. Right?" "Yeah," Greznya said, pulling the capsule out of her mouth. "Father of All, lieutenant, you were wonderful." "That was Katya," Mike said, chuckling. "Damn. Even I didn't recognize her." "We were dying over here," Olga said. "When the lieutenant called Greznya a two timing bitch. . . Oh, All Father." She started laughing again, helplessly. "How'd you recognize her?" Mike asked. "I knew Katya was there and couldn't leave the boat," Greznya said, shrugging. "When an American girl came over and started woo-hooing I knew it had to be her. So I had a drink of tequila. She'd put a message capsule in it. I think she offered it to Anastasia first, knowing that Stasia would be too. . .refined to drink from the neck of the bottle." "And making out?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "She was trying to start a fight," Greznya said, shrugging. "If Stasia had been more prepared for this sort of thing, she probably would have started the fight. As it was, the lieutenant did nicely." "Yeah," Britney said. "But, damn, that girl can hit." "She can do more than that," Mike said. "Be glad you're alive. What did we get?"

Julia had opened the capsule and extracted the note. "Set of signals and pick up and drop points," she said. "Probably for Jay." "So we can signal Jay that Katya can't get off the boat," Mike said, nodding. "Hopefully he's developed some data." He considered the situation then nodded again. "We're moving," Mike said. "Up towards the new base. Time to off-load some of the troops and get the base set up. Julia, you and. . .Lilia hang back. With a team of security. Take a hotel room and do a drop. Does anybody know if Jay has our codes?" "We've got codes for him," Greznya said, rubbing her cheek. "By the way, lieutenant, Katya's not the only one that can hit." "Sorry about that," Britney said, grinning. "Okay, make up a micro of everything Jay needs to know to date," Mike said. "Do the drop tomorrow. Take some gear with you but you're not going to be secure; Gonzales is definitely onto us. But do the drop and wait for a pickup. We'll be back in two days." ***

Chapter Eleven

The run up to the Abacos was done overnight so when Mike woke up the next morning the yacht was docked at an island that was in the middle of nothing but green and blue seas. The island was a remote outlier of the Abacos chain, the buildings originally part of a lighthouse, the tower to which remained. It had been bought in the early 1900s by a wealthy British shipping magnate and upgraded to the then standards of modern. Over the years it had passed through several hands, and several upgrades, and was currently owned by an American information-tech CEO. He wasn't stupid though. He only visited the island a few times a year. The rest of the time it was rented out to discerning clientele. The definition of "discerning" was anyone willing to spend a half a million dollars a week and plunk down a larger deposit against damage. Mike was feeling worn out, though, so he more or less sat out the initial transfer as the Keldara were ferried to the island via the boats. The five new speed boats had turned up, after one hell of a long run, and Mike had Vil's team crash while others, including members of the yacht's crew, did the ferrying. He was holding back Yosif's team and the rest of Vil's on the yacht for security. With the rest of the Keldara gone they were finally able to stretch out. The Keldara had been packed below like sardines. Even a hundred and fifty foot yacht didn't have enough room for them all. Yosif was coming back on one of the boats and as it approached the ship he said something to the driver, one of the yacht crew, who slowed the boat. Yosif, cautiously, slid over the side of the boat and began swimming towards the yacht. He didn't do it really well, what used to be called a California crawl, arms windmilling in a crawl but with his head out of the water. But he was clearly enjoying himself given the grin on his face. Mike watched him for a second then frowned. He'd never seen the Keldara swim, didn't even know they knew how. But Yosif was doing pretty well. Not exactly Olympic quality, but he'd clearly been in the water before and wasn't afraid of it. *** "Yosif," Mike said as the team leader came up the ladder, horking some water out of his ear. "I didn't know any of the Keldara could swim." "Not many," Yosif admitted. "I enjoy it, though. There is a deep spot in the river, where the Karl stream joins. It is cold though. This water is. . ." "Wonderful," Mike said, nodding. "I've been wanting to hit it, too. Anybody else on the teams swim?" "Most of mine," Yosif said, shrugging ruefully. "It's not considered. . . important to the Keldara." Mike blinked and considered that for a second. Every team had it's specialty except Yosif's. They were just rounders; they could do patrol well enough, entry well enough, shoot well enough, but they didn't have a niche like, say, Pavel, whose team was the shit for anything involving altitude, be that air ops or mountain.

Mike, with some subtle prodding, had chosen the team leaders. But the teams had fallen out on their own in a process remarkably similar to the way that kids chose ball teams in school. The team leaders had tended to choose people that were like them. Oleg was a bull so his team was bulls. Vil was more subtle, his team was subtle. And so on. Yosif's, from Mike's perspective, had been the left-overs. But if they were, in fact, the strange ones that enjoyed swimming. . . "Ever swim under water?" Mike asked. "Yes," Vil said, cocking his head. "Do you?" Mike snorted and then had to laugh out loud. He'd put a bathing suit on under his shorts so all he had to do was take them off along with his shirt. In about ten seconds he was over the side. He hadn't hyperventilated and it had been a while since he did a breath hold. But, Christ, he'd been a swimmer long before he joined the SEALs. All the breath-hold training he'd gotten had just added understanding and refinement. So he didn't have much trouble impressing a Keldara. He followed the bottom, given that there were boats moving overhead, and headed for the shore about fifty meters away. It was a long damned swim for not having prepared and, he realized, being really out of shape for it. But he made it to the shallows and then popped up, standing up and taking long breaths. When he was sure he'd vented all the CO2, he headed back. The return was harder. His muscles had warmed up and were pumping CO2 into his system at a higher rate. That was what caused the strangling "I have to breathe" sensation when doing a breathhold, too much CO2 not too little oxygen. The chemical sensor was actually a small bundle of nerves a small bundle of special cells called peripheral chemoreceptors attached to the carotid arteries in the neck. He let some of the breath out on the way back, getting some of the air out of his lungs reduced the need, then popped back up when he came to the landing platform. "Kildar, are you well?" Yosif asked, running down the stairway. "Fine," Mike said, taking more deep breaths to vent the air. "God, I'd forgotten how much fun that is." "That was a long swim," Yosif said, his eyes wide. "Yosif, I think that most of the Keldara have figured out I used to be a SEAL, right?" Mike asked. "You do know what SEALs do, right?" "Oh," Yosif said, shaking his head. "I suppose worrying about you in the water is. . .silly." "A bit," Mike said. "Yosif, you and your team are going to be doing some special training. And, unfortunately, I'm the only one around who can give it. So we'd better get started. But first I need to see Daria. We're going to need some gear." *** Kahf put his regulator in his mouth, sucked on it a couple of times to make sure his air was on, and rolled over the side of the moving boat.

The container had very dim strobes attached to it. In these waters, from the surface, they looked more like a school of phosphorescent jelly-fish than a container moored seventy feet down. Kahf had to fight some current on his way down. That was going to be a pain. The currents in the area, not far from the Gulf Stream, tended to swirl randomly. One day there'd be none, the next it could be high and from about any direction. He made it to the container, though, breathing somewhat hard and then paused. He slid a small device out of his buoyancy compensator and slid it down into the container on a lanyard. It stayed green. Good. Swimming head down he got to the first rank of remaining barrels. Bracing himself with a fin stuck between two of them and blowing out all the air in his BC, he pulled a mesh bag off his side and started pulling out items. First there was a long rope which he dropped to settle against the barrels. Then he pulled out a nylon harness and clipped the bag back on his BC. The harness went around one of the barrels and clipped together. It was a pain to get on but he had plenty of time. He was wearing double 105 cf tanks, over pressured to 4000 PSI and NITROX. The boat wouldn't be back for over two hours and he could stay at this depth for longer. Of course, he'd have to decompress, but the way things were set up that wouldn't be hard. He uncoiled part of the rope and attached the barrel to an already tied in loop knot. One down. Working faster now he fitted another barrel and another until he had four. Only then did he release the ties holding the pre-weighted barrels in place. Now was when he was going to have to use up some air. First he tied down the rope with a quick release. Then he attached four large float bags to the rope and inflated them from a spare hose attachment on his regulator. His air supply dropped noticeably but he still had plenty. Last, he grabbed onto the ties that had held the barrels down, wrapped the rope around his body and released the tie. The bags wanted to jump to the surface but that would be bad. Instead he belayed them up until the rope was taught. Then he undid it from his body, grabbed the barrels and went for a short ride. The rope was fifty feet long. The top of the container was at seventy. He slid out of the opening, easily missing the side and popped up twenty feet. A glance at his dive computer indicated that was not an issue. The computer said he'd need to decompress at twenty feet and ten but he had loads of time. Then he checked the watch built into the computer. Loads, the boat wouldn't be back for over an hour. He reinflated his BC and slid up the rope to the loop at twenty feet. Once there he adjusted his buoyancy, clipped himself in and lay back to enjoy the peace and quiet, bobbing lightly up and down due to the bags at the top. He'd have to be careful; he could very easily fall asleep. It wouldn't kill him, when the regulator slipped out he'd just get some seawater in his mouth and maybe lungs and cough a lot. But it would be a pain. And this was just too pleasant after being slammed around in that damned boat for two days. *** "Okay, this is just too much fun," Mike said, sliding out of the water like, well, a seal. "I feel like I'm playing."

"You may," Yosif said, climbing out on the dock next to him and gasping for air. "I don't. I thought this was going to be fun. . ." "Try doing it in twenty degrees," Mike said, referring to the temperature in Celsius. "This is the shit." Yosif's team had been doing crossovers, swimming one way, surfacing for a breath and then swimming back, for nearly an hour and one by one they all managed to clamber onto the dock. And they were all gasping as if they'd just finished a marathon. Cross-overs were deceptively exhausting. At first they were easy. This section of the harbor was barely wider than most pools and had concrete walls on both sides. Mike had shown them how to push off and you could coast most of the way on a push. And you weren't actually under water all that long. But you were only allowed to come up for a fast breath and then you had to dunk back down and do it again. And again and again and again. The muscles in the body quickly ran through their anaerobic energy stores, and those caused lactic acid generation anyway, then they had to switch to aerobic. Aerobic exercise released CO2 as the body converted O2 molecules into energy via ATP in the mitochondria. CO2 caused the "desperate for a breath" reaction. And the short bobs were never enough to get rid of all the CO2, much less get enough oxygen. Doing it over and over again was debilitating in the extreme, worse than a fast run of the same time duration. The Keldara were only able to survive it due to two factors: they were all runners thanks to Mike's training and they were from a high-altitude environment. They had grown up with about two thirds of what most people considered normal oxygen and their bodies had reacted by producing an abundance of red blood cells. Those were able to scavenge extra oxygen from their short breaths and carry more of the CO2 to their lungs to be expelled. And, of course, they were very hardcore and were not about to disappoint the Kildar. Mike had managed to scrounge swim goggles for all of them from the well-appointed yacht as well as the estate. Now they pushed them up or off, sprawling in the Caribbean sun. "You guys are going to have to do better than this," Mike said, shaking his head. "I thought you were swimmers!" "Kildar," Yosif said, finally getting his breath. "The pool we swim in is perhaps the size of a large bath-tub. I have swum across the river on a bet. This is. . ." "I know," Mike said, relenting. "But, seriously, if we have to do a water insert, you're the guys who are going to have to do it. I'm going to set up a lesson plan because I'm going to have to head back to Nassau." He paused and considered something then nodded. "The Master Chief is probably about done with his hospital time and, frankly, this would be a good place for him to convalesce. He can oversee it. He'd consider it refreshing. Just don't let him try to swim!" "Yes, Kildar,'' Yosif said. "You guys give it fifteen minutes," Mike said. "Then I want you to swim over to that point," he said, pointing across the vaguely curved island to a point about a quarter of a mile away. "Stay along the sides. Yosif, drag that rescue buoy," he added, pointing at the device which was hanging by the

harbor. It was cigar shaped and had a harness that went across the chest. "If anybody can't make it, call the swim and swim in. Let them hold onto the buoy. I don't want anybody dying. But the guy who calls the swim. . . He gets to work with the women in the kitchen tonight." "Yes, Kildar," Yosif said, grinning. "I don't think anyone will call the swim." "Guys, if you're going down, call the damned swim," Mike said, looking at the team. "Yosif, Edvin," he added to the Assistant Team leader, "it's your job to make sure everybody makes it. On second thought, Edvin, you carry the buoy. Stay near the back. Don't drown yourself." "Yes, Kildar," Edvin said. "Work on the side-stroke I taught you," Mike said. "Pull, breath, kick, glide, repeat. Every four or five strokes look up to make sure you are heading the right way other wise just follow the shore line. We can easily add fins as soon as they get here. Stay with your swim buddy. Repeat after me: Stay with your swim buddy. If you don't, life will get interesting." *** "Well this is interesting." "What?" David Levin said, looking up from his computer. David had been a kid in New Jersey, planning on working at the chemical plants around Trenton just like his dad, when he saw his first Jacques Cousteau show. One show was all it took. His parents hadn't had the money to pay for the, back then, incredibly expensive sport of SCUBA diving. So when he'd turned eighteen he'd hitchhiked to Florida and found a dive shop that needed somebody to work in their back room for just enough to survive and, oh, yeah, they'd throw in dive lessons. Twenty-seven years later he was the owner of Diver's Headquarters, one of the largest suppliers of dive gear in south Florida. With ten locations and a warehouse jammed with gear that was sold not only through brick and mortar stores but also on the internet he was a "mover" in the international dive community. He had decades of experience in what did and did not work in sport diving and was frequently consulted by manufacturers when they had a new system, light, fin or suit they wanted to sell. "It's an email," Joe Barber replied. David had hired Joe when the kid came in the door trying to sell him some orange solvent cleaner. The kid was clearly underage and Dave suspected, and later confirmed, that he was a run-away. But the kid had been such a hard seller, Dave offered him a job on the spot. On the phone, and back then they got a lot of phone-in orders, there was no way anybody would know the kid was underage. And there were ways to make the paperwork disappear. Once he hit eighteen, Joe had worked his way up fast, first as a top floor salesman, then a store manager then back to the phones and now internet and finally to manager of the whole direct sales division. Dave had seen that gleam in the runaway and known he had a player on his hands. Dave had been married and divorced three times but nary a one kid despite trying. Maybe it was the chemicals in Trenton. But he sort of did in Joe who was, everybody knew, his heir apparent. "Don't keep me guessing," Dave said.

"Lady in the Bahamas wants thirty sets of gear," Joe said, wonderingly. "Everything from fins to tanks. All top line. Zeagle regs and BCs, Pro wetsuits. . . Everything listed by model. She's asking if we can supply it overnight or even for delivery late today. They're willing to pay to charter a plane." "Do we have the systems?" Dave asked. "Not in the warehouse," Joe replied, tapping at ke